


Shrapnel

by librata



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Ableism, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Charles in a Wheelchair, Cherik - Freeform, Disability, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Issues, Erik is Jewish, Erik-centric, F/M, Historical, Holocaust, Homophobia, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt Charles, Hurt/Comfort, Life Is Mean To Erik, M/M, Nazis, POV Erik Lehnsherr, Paralysis, Physical Disability, Protective Erik, Pseudo-History, Racism, Sharon Xavier Sucks A Lot, Soldiers, Teen Angst, Teenagers, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18998767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: It's late 1940, and tensions between the Axis and the Allies are tightening. Displaced and alone, 16-year-old German Jew Erik Lehnsherr finds himself employed as a servant by some snobby, terrible family in England whose house is far too big and whose money never seems to end. The worst part is, he isn't just mucking stables or cleaning plates–-he's tasked with tending to the whiny, disabled son named Charles, who might just drive Erik into absolute madness.Or, the World War II fic in which Erik and Charles experience a changing world and a lot of teen angst.





	1. Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading Chapter 1! I'll aim to update at least once per week, but there's no promises on frequency. I have the story planned out from start to end at least, so I will be finishing it at the very least, it just may take a bit of time!
> 
> I just decided to use some other favorites as side characters, as it's easier to use an established person! Sorry if I get some of that characterization wrong, but they're really not my focus. 
> 
> Also, I'll use phrases and words that were common in this time period, even if they're not necessarily correct to say (ie, cripple. I won't use anything worse than that!) I have no intention of being offensive, so I do apologize if I offend anyone in advance!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, comments are welcome! :)

**_August 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England._  **

It was astounding, to Erik, that he had never heard of the people who lived in this house.

Its massive, grandiose exterior only gave a slim preview of the opulence that lie within, and even though he had been here for nearly ten hours already, Erik still couldn’t believe that he was welcome–warmly or otherwise–into such a home. Only royals lived in homes like this, he had thought. Royals and wealthy politicians who liked to frame themselves as royalty. Maybe artists, too. Those fond of the idea that they could live in another time.

These people, who lived in this dripping manor house in the southwest of England, were simply wealthy. That’s what the driver of the vehicle who had picked Erik up at the train station had told him.

“The Xavier family is doing you a real service, young man,” the driver, who called himself Mr. Banner, had said. He wore a prim black suit and white gloves, something far too fancy for a drive down a dusty lane in Erik’s opinion. “Not every family like theirs would even consider taking in a boy like you at a time like this.”

A boy like him. A German and a Jew.

A time like this. The end of the world.

“Very gracious,” Erik had replied curtly in response, tightening his tattered coat around him as he watched a swath of dark clouds grow thicker and thicker in the sky.

Mr. Banner huffed, as if Erik had just suggested they pull the car over and eat horse droppings for dinner. “You’d best realize how gracious it really is,” he said briskly. “There are English young men who would sacrifice a lot of this opportunity. It’s the good graces of Madame Xavier’s heart that is allowing you such comfortable refuge.”

 _Because indentured servitude is "comfortable refuge,"_ Erik thought bitterly, and then scolded himself for doing so. He'd been trying to stop thinking about this arrangement like that, because, really, he was lucky. He was here in England, safely hidden from the ugly power of his home country while every person he'd ever known and loved was being carted off to some hellhole, certainly. Erik was the lucky one, saved for some purpose as his parents and sister were put on that crowded train. Lucky that he'd still been in the ghetto when his Uncle Ahron came round, told him about a connection he had to some English family, that he could get him away. Lucky that the anger and desperation hadn't fully sunk in when Uncle Ahron snuck him onto that horse cart in the middle of the night and sent him off, telling him that God would guide his way. Lucky that he'd made the journey without being detected or captured, that he'd finally disembarked in Dover on that horribly rainy afternoon. Lucky. Erik knew he was lucky.

Erik didn’t say anything else to Mr. Banner for the rest of the drive.

In fact, he didn't get to say much of anything at all once he arrived at the manor. He'd barely had time to ogle at the sheer splendor of the place before he was whisked away to meet the Head of Staff, who turned out to be a stolid man named Mr. Colson. Mr. Colson quickly explained that he would be Erik's direct superior from now on, and that if anything was amiss, he was to go directly to him. Before Erik could even affirm that he understood, a friendly, pretty maid named Ms. Danvers abducted him for a tour of the mansion. Only then could Erik really begin to see what kind of wealth this place basked in; gilded furniture, hundreds of rooms, an abundance of staff bustling about. Ms. Danvers chatted to him as he did his best to absorb every inch of what he saw, nearly afraid to touch anything as if he hadn't the right to tarnish such richness with his dirty hands. 

There was also an abundance of metal, Erik couldn't help but note. Its presence sang to him, tickled his fingertips and asked him to play, an Erik wished that he could tell this strange sense of his to fall silent. Several years ago, when he was still a child, Erik had discovered that he possessed an ability to feel the area around anything metal, as if it had a physical presence. When angry or upset, metal objects would suddenly warp, move, or explode, and it was only when Erik sent his younger sister's spoon flying out of her hands after an argument that he realized that he was at fault. His mother and father took ages longer to believe that he had this curse. When they did, they told him to pray for guidance, and practice secrecy. Their small farming community would never accept or understand his abilities, and his parents explained that his safety depended upon maintaining control and privacy. So Erik slowly learned how to keep himself from commandeering every metallic object in range, and never told another soul. 

"I know, it's almost mad to think about," said Ms. Danvers with a sympathetic smile once she picked up on Erik's sense of overwhelm. They were in another dining room, which was apparently for distinguished guests only. "It'll probably take a good bit, but you'll grow accustomed to it."

"I don't think I'd ever grow accustomed to this," Erik admitted, eyeing an ornate armoire filled with expensive-looking plates that sat underneath a massive painting of some old family. "My home could probably fit in this room alone."

Ms. Danvers laughed, and Erik's tense shoulders eased ever so slightly. She was the first person he'd met in a good while who didn't treat him like an annoyance, and that made her seem warm and likable. "I know what you mean. Sometimes, even I find new places in this house that I've never seen before. It's that big."

It wasn't until Ms. Danvers paused their tour in a lounge of some sort did Erik finally meet one of the family members, who were apparently outnumbered by staff nearly twentyfold. A blonde-haired girl who looked to be about Erik's age was propped on delicate elbows on her stomach across a sofa, ankles in the air and a book in her hands. She wore no shoes, and her dress gathered around her knees on the sofa, leaving that portion of her body exposed. Immediately, Erik looked away, heat rising in his cheeks. 

"Carol!" the girl chirped upon their entrance. "I've been looking for you all afternoon, I have some updates for you!" Her voice was surprisingly animated as she gracefully adjusted her position so that she sat upright, book forgotten. Immediately, Erik could see that she didn't have the constrained, practiced propriety that Erik assumed a resident of this house would possess by nature, her blonde hair tousled and her dress rumpled. Minus the English accent, she briefly reminded Erik of the girls from his village, who chatted excitedly to each other and giggled when he walked by with the spoils of his family's farm.

Ms. Danvers smiled graciously, glancing at Erik for just a moment. "I'll be happy to hear them, Miss Raven, but I must finish acquainting our new steward with this castle of yours," she said politely, gesturing to Erik.

The girl–Miss Raven, apparently–turned her attention to Erik as if she just discovered his presence, and then cocked a poised brow. Her eyes were sharp and made Erik feel as if he was being looked straight through, but Erik thought that maybe all English people were simply like this. "Are you Charles's new slave?" she asked finally.

Erik pursed his lips, confused. "I'm not exactly sure what you mean," he said, voice level and guarded as always. He'd decided that he would not show any of these people any insecurity or weakness. Ever.

Miss Raven rolled her eyes. "Carol?"

"I'd hardly call Master Charles a slaver, Miss Raven, but, yes," Ms. Danvers answered, doing nothing to quell Erik's confusion. "Erik here is your brother's new steward."

Miss Raven looked over Erik with those strangely piercing eyes of hers once more as she stood up from the sofa, book in hand. Her glance was frustrating, mostly because Erik didn't know what the young woman was looking for, and it took a lot of strength not to glare back at his new mistress. "I'll give him a month at most, Carol," she said at last. "But only because he looks a touch more solid than the last one. A thicker skin."

With that, Miss Raven slunk out of the lounge, leaving Erik and Ms. Danvers alone once more. "I'm sorry, but what did she mean?" Erik asked then, deciding that Ms. Danvers was possibly the only person here that he could trust at the moment. "Whose slave?"

Ms. Danvers huffed under her breath and shook her head, her own blond hair pulled back in a clean knot. "No one's  _slave,_ Erik," she said, eyes flitting to the door as if she feared that someone would overhear. "You're not a slave here. Madame Xavier simply intends for you to be the young master's personal attendant."

_"What?"_

For the first time since leaving Poland on that dusty truck, Erik allowed himself to show outward confusion. No one mentioned any of this to him. Because of his farming background and sturdy muscles, Erik had assumed that he would be mucking stables or tending to the landscape. Or hauling heavy things back and forth, or simply cleaning dishes at the end of the night. No one told him that he would be personally attending anyone. The idea made his skin prickle. He did not want to sit around all day and take abuse from one of these rich people. Fetch their tea, press their clothing, brush their hair, because Erik didn't  _know how_ to do all of that, nor did he care to be in close contact with  _anyone_ for that matter. All throughout the journey from Poland, Erik had done hard work of convincing himself that he could tolerate tending animals and washing dishes until the war ended and he could move back home. 

Ms. Danvers pressed her lips together momentarily. "I thought you were aware. The young master's former attendant decided to...er, pursue other opportunities elsewhere, which is why you've been brought on. Madame Xavier felt that Master Charles may prefer the company of another boy close in age to an older woman, as he's had."

Erik still didn't understand. He'd never worked on a house staff like this before, but he never knew that people nowadays still had personal servants. Especially if this Master Charles person was close in age to Erik. What sixteen-year-old boy  _wanted_ another sixteen-year-old boy to tend to him? Did he have no friends of his own to keep him company? 

"What am I supposed to do for him?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask his irritation.

Ms. Danvers sighed, picking absently at the hem of her sleeve. She seemed to be contemplating her next words, her bottom lip gnashed under her teeth briefly. "Master Xavier was in an accident, about a year ago," she said finally, face solemn. "The doctors say that he broke his spinal cord."

Erik continued to frown. "A year ago is a long time."

"He cannot walk," Ms. Danvers said, suddenly challenging Erik's tone. "He's crippled."

Crippled. Erik's mouth snapped shut then, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Feeling sorry that he had made a fuss to Ms. Danvers, and a bit sick at the thought of doing something incorrect. A crippled boy, Eli, had lived in Erik's village, the only other one that Erik knew. His mother told him that the boy had fallen from a cart and landed on his head when he was young, so he was forever lame. And although Eli always smiled a glassy-eyed grin and waved and clapped from where he sat in front of his father's bakery, Erik's mother made them pray for him each week.

"I still don't know what I'm supposed to do for him," Erik said, tone less sharp. "I'm not trained for that sort of thing."

"Help him do what he can't do on his own," Ms. Danvers shrugged. "I'm sure you've noticed that there are plenty of stairs in this house, so help him up and down them. Take him where he wants to go, get him up and ready for the day, that kind of thing. He'll tell you."

"He talks?"

Ms. Danvers looked as if she had resisted an eye-roll. "His legs don't work. His brain works perfectly fine, Erik."

That, Erik supposed, was a relief. He would have a better time tending to someone who could communicate with him. Still, he wasn't sure that this was what he was best suited for, especially upon remembering how Miss Raven had predicted that he would only make it one month before failing. "How is he, then?" Erik asked. "Is he friendly?"

Ms. Danvers just smiled and turned, indicating that she wanted to continue their tour. "Occasionally."

* * *

 

Erik didn't sleep at all that night. There were too many things bouncing around in his head to rest. Rules he'd been told, routines he would need to memorize. Names, rooms, preferences. Too much to properly absorb in one night without going mad.

Surprisingly, Erik hadn't felt properly nervous until he'd shut himself in the tiny bedroom that he was given, beginning to panic once that door closed behind him. There wasn't much room at all to pace, so Erik had taken to folding and refolding the crisp white shirts and sturdy trousers that he'd been given to wear as he contemplated all that lie ahead. If he'd just been assigned farm work, he knew that he would be asleep moments after collapsing onto the narrow bed, because his body was used to that. Rising with the sun to tend to the cows, irrigate the crops, let the horses out. He knew how to do that.

He didn't know how to attend a human being.

Ms. Danvers, or Carol, as she insisted he call him described the elusive young Master vaguely, but her description was the clearest. Everyone else only touched on his presence, which made Erik nervous. And he wasn't at dinner, either. Erik was made to assist at the dinner service when a pair of maids came up ill, but each time he entered the dining room to refill water, clear a plate, bring a new tray, he couldn't seem to find anyone who looked like they could be Master Charles.

There was Raven, the girl he'd met earlier. She'd changed clothes and appeared more prim at the dinner table, picking quietly at her meal without making much eye contact with anybody. She seemed more vulnerable than she had before, somehow, as if she felt out of place.

Then there was Cain. Another boy who looked much older but was apparently just a year ahead of Erik at 17. He was large, straight hair pulled slick across his head, all cornfed brawn. Erik immediately decided that he disliked Cain when the boy snapped his fingers at Erik without looking at him to get his attention. He had to resist a strong urge to force Cain to stick himself with his own fork after that, because maybe he was a servant here, but he wasn't a dog.

Madame Xavier wasn't exactly the kindhearted mother figure that Erik had expected, either. A pretty woman in her forties, she must have drunk five glasses of wine throughout the meal, her already slurred speech growing increasingly unintelligible. By the time dessert was served, she seemed too drunk to really know where she was and ended up stumbling from the dining room midway through the course while the rest of the table ignored her.

Kurt, who apparently wasn't Master Xavier, was the remaining member of the family at the table. He was an imposing man, his face set in a hardened grimace. Carol had explained that Madame Xavier married Kurt nearly six years ago, and that he had brought Cain with him. It was clear from her tone and careful words that she held some deeper thoughts about the pair of them, but Erik decided not to ask. When he couldn't help himself, he finally enquired about the other young master, and Carol only shrugged and figured that he'd taken dinner in his room. He often didn't feel well, she said.

Not a great omen for Erik. All in all, the family seemed fairly cold, if not boring. He knew that Raven at least had some vestiges of a personality, but one wouldn't know it from her behavior at dinner. The rest of them spoke little with each other and didn't appear to particularly like each other's company, which made Erik feel strangely nostalgic for home. He remembered their own dinners around the small dining room table in their house, laden with his mother's succulent dishes and animated with conversation. They would pray, and then discuss the farm, any happenings in town, Erik and his sister Ruth's schooling. Erik had left school after last year to help his aging father on the farm, so he liked to hear Ruth's stories of their old friends.

Erik stopped himself there. He couldn't afford to think about his family right now. Any further thoughts would send him down a train of thought that was too dangerous to explore right now. He'd become very good at halting his thoughts and directing them elsewhere.

For some reason, Erik couldn't imagine any of these people being interested in hearing about such things. It could be worse, though. They could be outright cruel to him and the others, or obnoxious or loud. Cold and quiet was preferable to a lot of things, although Erik still didn't know what to expect from his charge.

So when that distant, gloomy clock tower sounded that it was 5:00am, Erik rose from his bed and dressed for the day. Breakfast for the family was served at 8:00, but the help had to be up to prepare the house for the day to come. Somehow, Erik found his way down to the kitchen in decent time and was handed a bowl of watery porridge before being tasked to peel potatoes until 6:45.

"You'd better go and get the young master up," Carol told Erik once the clock struck. "You need to press his clothes and get him ready to have him down by 8, and he's not the quickest in the morning." Another maid, Maria, at Carol's side snickered and shook her head, which made Erik's stomach turn ever so slightly.

Nevertheless, Erik made his way to the bedroom he'd been shown last night. It was situated at the end of a long, wide hallway, tucked on the most western wing of the mansion. It was quiet on this side, the chaos of the morning still distant to the sleeping inhabitants.

Steeling himself, Erik broke through his hesitation and knocked once on the door. No answer. Another knock, louder this time. Still no answer. "Er...sir?" Erik called, just loud enough as he pressed his ear against the door. "Er, I'm supposed to get you ready....?"

It was clear that Erik was speaking to silence then, so after taking a deep breath, he opened the door and slipped inside. The room was still nearly pitch black, morning's light only barely slipping through the cracks in the curtains. Erik could see that the room was large and spacious, filled with cabinets and shelves. On the wall farthest from the door, Erik could make out a large bed in the darkness, but not much more than that.

It didn't seem as if the young master had stirred yet, but the darkness was still too heavy, so Erik padded to a window gathered a fistful of heavy curtain in his hands, and wrenched them open to let the light pour in.

Seconds later, Erik was hit square in the back of the head by something plush. A pillow.

"What in the _hell_ are you doing?" came an angry, somewhat muffled voice from the bed. "I'm aware that advancements are being made for those suffering from blindness, but I would prefer not to discover that firsthand, thank you very much."

Erik wheeled around on his heel to face the bed, surprised. It still took another moment to discern the figure within, but after studying the heaps of blankets and pillows, he could make out a shock of messy dark hair. Buried among the linens, the young master lie in the large bed, clearly hiding himself from the light that Erik had allowed to flood the room.

Illuminated, the space was even larger than Erik had anticipated. The entire wall opposite the bed was lined with overflowing bookshelves, volume after handsome volume nearly bursting from the rich mahogany. On the floor beside the bookshelves was an armchair and a matching sofa, a small table between them covered in yet more books. In fact, nearly all of the dozens of surfaces in the room were buried in books, papers, pencils. The dressers, the trunk, the armoires and tables, the shelves, the cushioned seat beside the window. Each absolutely buried in books. 

The only surface that Erik could see that remained bare was the large, wooden chair beside the bed. He felt the metal wheels of the chair before he saw them, and remembered only then that he was crippled. Right. Carol said that he couldn't walk, so that chair must be how they moved him about. Given its surroundings, the chair seemed rather old and unimpressive, as simple as the ones that Erik had seen the elderly folks in temple use. 

"Are you deaf?" the boy said then, bringing Erik's attention back to him. "Close the bloody curtains!"

Erik's instincts told him to listen to the boy, but he knew that it was his job to get him ready for the day, so he only closed them marginally before inching back toward the bed. 

"I'm supposed to wake you and ready you for breakfast, sir," Erik said cautiously, hands behind his back.

The mountain of blankets shuffled for a moment before the boy finally emerged, eyes bleary with sleep and hair tousled. He was smaller than Erik had expected. In fact, judging from his top half, he was very small, body dwarfed by loose pajamas. A long, elegant neck melted into spiny collarbones, visible even from underneath the cotton striped sleepwear. His arms, which propped him up in a seated position, were thin and narrow and seemed as if they'd snap under his weight. He was very, very skinny, Erik realized. Not just slender, but skinny, as if his skin covered only his bones and nothing else. 

Under his mess of brown, wavy hair was a rather large head. He had milk-white skin and a light dusting of auburn freckles across his nose, almost faded into nothing. And piercing blue eyes peered out from almost sunken eye sockets, boring into Erik's own. 

"You're not English," the boy said, and Erik was surprised by the change. He had rosy lips that seemed too feminine for a young man, but he supposed that Master Charles wasn't necessarily the epitome of masculine brawn. 

"I'm German," Erik confirmed carefully, unable to pull away from the boy's oceanic eyes. 

"A refugee?" he pressed, accent filled with all the propriety of a wealthy English gentleman. 

"I suppose."

Master Charles considered that, studying Erik up and down before plopping back down with the lightest thud, bony fingers ripping blankets back over his head. "Tell my mother that I'm not hungry," he said once he'd covered himself completely.

Out of sheer darwinian instinct, Erik shook his head and pulled the blankets back off of the boy, earning him an annoyed growl. The young master was too thin to be skipping meals like this, and Erik would not have him grow sick due to his lack of insistence. Not on his first day. "I've been told to bring you down for breakfast, sir," Erik said evenly, folding the blankets away from the boy's body entirely. His legs looked to be in far worse shape than his upper body, but Erik supposed that made sense, if his body was damaged below.

Master Charles glared up at Erik, face angry and childlike, defiant. "I told you that I'm not hungry."

Erik glared back, growing frustrated. How could a boy his own age be this petulant? "That's not a concern of mine. I'm here to do a job, and that job entails getting you out of bed and down to breakfast. I have no say in the matter."

The young master propped himself back up on his elbows, challenging Erik with his stubborn glare. "You do have a choice in the matter. You can choose to bend to my mother's inane demands and cater to her fantasy of a perfect family, allowing her to sit in her drunken haze as she pretends that everything is alright," he said quickly, holding Erik's gaze as if by magnetism. "Or, you can respect the freewill of a fellow human and understand that, despite my mother and her staff's insistence, I, too, have wants and requests, the most pressing of which confronts us immediately," he finished, raising his chin to Erik. "So, have your say."

Erik felt his face morph into an angry expression, throwing any vestige of cool indifference he'd tried to embody out the window. The young master obviously saw himself as a smart person, probably unused to being challenged. All Erik could see was a spoiled, bratty rich boy who felt that he could be rude to others to get his way. At home, they rose before dawn each day to tend the farm, and he never once dared complain of the earliness to his father. Only once when he'd fallen ill with fever did he beg his father to allow him to stay in bed, and after his mother had a private word with his father, he consented. But now, the sun was high in the sky and an entire team of people were making breakfast for this boy. He would not allow himself to be taken advantage of.

"I say that you're getting out of bed and enjoying your breakfast," Erik said firmly, and before the boy could complain, he shoved his arms underneath him and lifted him from his bed. 

It was like lifting a bird with glass bones. Erik had steeled for a weight much heavier than the one he was carrying, despite already observing how thin he was. Even as Charles wrestled and turned in his arms, Erik felt as if he was holding a newborn piglet, or a half-filled sack of flour. Maybe even less than that. The young master's bones poked and prodded at his arms through his skin, fists feeling like ripe plums as they pounded at Erik's chest. Master Charles was extraordinarily tiny. Worryingly tiny, just a bundle of bones and limp legs in Erik's arms. 

With as much care as he could manage, Erik set the young master down in the chair beside the bed and quickly pulled it backwards so that he could not climb back in. He contemplated using his abilities to lock the wheels, but the axle on the chair was rather rusty and stiff, making it difficult for even Erik to pull it at any great length. There would be no way for a boy so thin and weak to use his arms to move the chair nearly at all. 

"You're a horrid brat," the young master hissed as he resigned to futility, sinking against the back of the chair in defeat. His eyes met Erik's yet again, and Erik could see immense anger brewing in those blue irises. "I'll have you tossed out on the streets!"

Erik turned and headed toward the wardrobe, ignoring the threat. "What would you like to wear?" he asked as he pulled open the doors, overwhelmed with rows of clothing hanging from several rods. 

"Piss off."

"Blue jumper it is," Erik replied, selecting the only shirt he could find that did not need to be pressed. He remembered that he was supposed to press the boy's clothes, but he did not want to be late for breakfast, and if getting the young master out of bed was that difficult, he figured there would be little time to spare.

 

Amazingly, he managed to have Charles at the breakfast table at 8:00 on the dot. Getting the boy fully ready for the day took over an hour, because after resigning himself to the fact that he would indeed be having breakfast, Charles seemingly decided to fight Erik's every move.

First, he'd put his trousers on wrong, apparently, which actually did frighten Erik, because Charles's legs were like matchsticks with feet. The shock at their state overshadowed the discomfort he felt at touching a boy his age's body, which he supposed was a good thing in the end. Once he finally had him in trousers, it took ten minutes to find the correct undershirt, and then another ten to convince Charles into a pair of socks and shoes. Charles refused to allow Erik into the ensuite bathroom with him, which would have been fine by him had Charles not taken nearly forty-five minutes to use the toilet, brush his hair and teeth, and do God knows what else. 

Erik knew for a fact that the boy was stalling on purpose, doing whatever he could to make Erik's life more difficult, and he had nearly wrenched the ornate door from its hinges by the time Charles called for Erik to come retrieve him. And then Charles complained about how Erik negotiated the stairwells, how he set him back in his wheelchair, and even how loud Erik's footsteps were as he pushed him through the echoing halls. By the time he burst into the dining room with the boy, Erik was frustrated and exhausted. 

The family all looked up as they entered but offered no greeting, resuming their dull conversation without more than a glance in their direction. Only Raven offered any hint of care as she watched Erik wheel Charles to the table, her lips slightly upturned in an impressed smirk. Charles shot her a pointed look, and they both watched each other intently, as if having a silent conversation, before Charles upturned his head in Erik's direction. "That will be all," he said shortly before turning his attention to his glass of water.

Relieved by his dismissal, Erik stalked back to the kitchen and sank into a chair beside the counter. Carol chuckled as she bustled by with a basket of fresh fruit, pausing to lean on the surface beside him. "Rough morning?"

Erik glowered up at her, wondering if it would be better to simply leave now or wait until nightfall to make his escape.


	2. Languages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dash of Erik, a bit of Charles, a sprinkle of Raven. Oh, and some mutantness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter came out sooner than I thought! Have to ride the inspiration wave while it takes you. 
> 
> More about Erik's background in this chapter. I did my best to make it historically accurate, but there may be some discrepancies. I'm not too worried about them, so I hope you aren't either!
> 
> Comments widely appreciated, I live for any feedback. :)

_**September 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England.** _

The first few weeks at the Xavier estate seemed to simultaneously fly and crawl. Whenever Erik had a time-sensitive task, time whizzed past, the hours compressing into minutes as he worked quickly for fear of upsetting the family, or Mr. Colson for that matter. But when his schedule remained light, the hours stretched on endlessly, leaving Erik little to do but think.

And thinking was dangerous. Too much free time had his mind traveling back to the squalid apartment in the ghetto, where he and his family had lodged with six other families, sleeping on the floor, shoulder to shoulder. Somehow, his mother and the mothers of the other families managed to wrestle up delicious meals out of their rations, and they would eat their latkes and chicken soup in their huddle as they told stories to pass the time and keep their minds occupied. Erik was the oldest of the children in that apartment, so he'd taken to helping the fathers find what work they could, building stoves, chopping wood, using their physical capabilities to earn a few coins. Most of the time, they wouldn't be able to find any work, though, so they would sit outside before curfew, smoking smuggled tobacco and making plans they would never carry out to escape this place and head back home.

After Erik watched his family and the six other families pile onto that train, he knew that he would never go back home. Not home as he knew it, anyway. Their modest farm just outside of Rothenberg, with its gentle hills and grazing animals. It baffled Erik that, at one point, he wanted nothing more than to be away from that place, because all he wanted to do right now was go back. Even the ghetto with its cramped quarters and dirty streets seemed a refuge. He'd been with his family in the ghetto.

This was when it became dangerous. Truly dangerous. He could not think about his mother, father, sister. Erik had boarded that train alongside them, never even considering leaving their sides. It was the gestapo man who'd yanked on the back of his shirt and then pulled him from the platform, shoving him toward the other group of other young men who'd been made to stay. Even after Erik tried to slip back to his family, the big gestapo officer kicked him in the stomach, told him to go where he was directed and shut up. Erik had been making another attempt to join his family on the train when the same gestapo pulled out a gun and shot another boy for disobeying orders.

He looked to his family then, and his mother waved him away, urging him to stay where he was. " _Ton vi ir zent dertseylt tsu ton, lib_ ,"* is what she'd called out to him, in Yiddish of all languages. At home, they spoke German and Hebrew first, but rarely ever Yiddish. Perhaps she was being defiant to these Judaic-hating men, speaking their ancient tongue, or perhaps she wanted her voice to be discernible above the crowd of frantic Hebrew and German and Polish. Regardless, Erik would never forget his mother's final words to him. _Do as you're told, love._

He'd only been spared one last look at his family before the crowd overpowered his line of sight. Ruth had been crying into their mother's side. His father, a man who claimed to have no tears within his body, had shining eyes as he reached his hand out toward Erik, a goodbye or a desperate attempt to bring him with them. And his mother with shining eyes of her own, gave him a small smile and a nod. A promise that she would take care of the rest of them. That was the last time he'd seen his family. Somewhere deep inside his soul, Erik knew that it might be the last time he ever would.

So, he did his best not to think of them.

Only a few of his fellow staff members cared enough to ask him about his life, which was preferable, as he didn't care to talk to these people about it. Carol was the only one who ever bothered to have a full conversation with Erik, anyway. Most were English or Irish and had no way of knowing what his life had been like and how it had changed, and there wasn't a single Jew, either. He didn't mind saying his prayers alone in his room when he could, but after several weeks, there was little motivation to do so. Carol told him of a temple on the far side of the village proper, but that would be several hours walk and Erik only had Saturday afternoons off officially. And Erik didn't care to go to an English temple, really. Prayers and verses in English sounded false and contrived.

Perhaps it was fortunate, then, that the young master of the house wasn't offering any reprieve from his difficult behavior, because he usually did keep Erik more than occupied. Ever since their first meeting, Charles had been nothing but a headache, fighting his every move, arguing over the smallest infractions, or simply causing trouble for the fun of it. If Erik didn't know better, he'd assume that Charles was six and not 16, because his brattiness never seemed to cease in the slightest.

One day, after the young master berated Erik for a good five minutes after Erik suggested they take a walk (he'd learned then not to use that word) outside after lunch, Carol sat beside Erik in the laundry press as he waited for his own temper to subside. "You know, he wasn't always like this," she said quietly, rubbing Erik's shoulder. "It was only after his accident that he became shirty and cross."

Erik scoffed, standing up from the bench so that he could resume pressing jumpers and slacks, as there was never time to do it in the mornings. "So sorry if I don't believe you, but for some reason, I'm finding that hard to imagine."

"Really," Carol insisted, standing at his side to help him tend to the clothing. "He was actually a super friendly young man before. He was away most of the year at school, but whenever he was home, he made sure to check in with all of us, and somehow convinced the Madame to give us extra wages. Always polite and kind."

Erik hadn't known that Charles used to go to a proper school. Each weekday between breakfast and tea, a tutor came to meet with Charles in the library to do his schooling. Those were the hours that stretched and stretched for Erik, because he had little to do but tidy Charles' room and look for work to do. And even though it was nice to have a break from the young master's abuse, he preferred the occupation to boredom. "Why doesn't he leave home for school now?" Erik asked, focusing on his ironing.

Carol rolled her eyes-something she did a lot when Erik asked questions. "He's crippled, thickhead," she told him. "Even if a school could accommodate him, do you really think that the Madame would allow him to go?"

She did have a point. After nearly a month of working here, Erik had noticed that Madame Xavier seemed to look upon her son with a mixture of pity and disgust, her eyes always landing on the chair when she finally did spare him a word or two. Once, she'd caught Erik carrying him up the stairs, and in a drunken haze, expressed a distasteful hiss and turned to take an alternate route. At the time, Erik assumed that she simply disliked him for his German Jewishness, but after glancing at Charles, he gathered a bit of shame. A small bit of sadness washed over Erik in that moment--just a small bit. Charles was too insufferable for Erik to feel proper sorrow for him, but it wasn't fair that his own mother regarded him so poorly. For something he couldn't control, anyway.

"I suppose she wouldn't," Erik said quietly. "Still, that doesn't excuse his horrid behavior. I'm merely trying to help him."

"That might be your problem," Carol shrugged. "Maybe you're trying too hard to do everything for him."

It was Erik's turn to roll his eyes. "If I didn't do everything for him, he'd lie in bed all day and eat nothing," he said sharply. "He doesn't want to  _do_ anything at all."

"You know he isn't dumb," said the blond woman, folding a pair of trousers with a crispness that could never be matched. "He's actually incredibly intelligent, from what I hear. He knows that he can't lie in bed and wither away, no matter how much he might want to. Try to speak his language. Maybe he wants you to treat him less like a pain in your backside and more like an equal. A friend."

Once more, Erik scoffed. "If he doesn't want to be treated like a pain in my backside, he ought to stop being one, Carol."

 

* * *

 

It bothered Erik, but he thought about what Carol said for the rest of the afternoon. He even found a way to ask Maria, the other maid who was friendly enough to him, about Charles. "Oh, Master Charles? Of course not, he was an utter darling before that horrid accident of his," she told him with a sigh. "The Madame was having a huge party one time, but my sister out in Birmingham caught the Tuberculosis, and somehow, Master Charles managed to convince her to let me go see her and miss the party. No missed pay, either. A real doll, that boy. Shame what happened to him."

Alright, so before this mysterious accident of his, Charles was a nice boy with a strange knack for convincing his mother to be lenient with the staff. Both Carol and Maria described him similarly, and both Carol and Maria seemed not to want to discuss the accident, either, so it must have been bad. Erik supposed that it made sense that Charles was now bitter and angry with his fate, and although it didn't excuse his behavior toward Erik, it showed that, perhaps, there would be a way to unearth that kindness once more.

Not that Charles was truly  _mean_ , either. He was difficult with Erik and definitely short-tempered, but Erik had noticed that with the other staff, Charles was rather indifferent, but not impolite. Not like his step brother, who snapped, yelled, demanded, and reprimanded. Or like Master Marko or Madame Xavier, who insulted and belittled. Miss Raven wasn't rude to the staff, but she was away at school during the week and only home at weekends, so he hadn't gotten the chance to observe her too much. Erik received the worst of Charles's rudeness, and that was probably a direct result of Erik constantly challenging him. The other staff catered to his will.

So when it was time to serve tea in the late afternoon, Erik carried the tray to the library with a bit of resolve. So far, Erik had done a fine job of keeping his secret abilities a secret, though moments like this--carrying a metal tray up a deserted stairwell--tested him, as he wanted to flex that strange muscle of his every now and then. But he was sure that, if the young master saw his trickery, he would have him thrown to the streets immediately, so he merely carried the laden surface to the corner of the library where the young master always took his tea.

"Your tea, sir." Charles glanced up from his book for less than a second, as if by reflex, when Erik placed the tray of tea, sandwiches, and the day's newspaper on the table beside the young master. This spot was where he had his schooling, and he tended to read here every day, even on Sundays.

Charles was swaddled in blankets, despite the warmth of the late summer afternoon. There was always a wool blanket wrapped around his wasted legs like a vice and another large quilt covering his upper half. His stature never failed to startle Erik, those bones looking as if they were on the verge of ripping through pale skin, blue eyes more sunken by the day. He only ever are bites of his meals and rarely did more than pick at the crust of his sandwich, but Erik had drawn the line at force-feeding. Although soon, he may have to start.

Erik carefully poured the steaming earl gray into the delicate cup, adding a splash of milk and a small cube of sugar before mixing. Charles was still frowning into the volume on his lap, well-distracted, so Erik took the opportunity to snatch the newspaper from the tray and make himself comfortable in the overstuffed chair across from the young master.

It was only when Erik flicked the paper with a  _snap_ that Charles realized that Erik was still there. 

"What are you doing?" the young master demanded, his wan face both annoyed and inquisitive.

Erik smiled politely. "Reading. Is that forbidden to me? I'll stop if it is."

Charles's glare deepened. "Must you do it right here?"

"I'd prefer to. The light from the window is nice."

Erik fully expected Charles to demand that he sit somewhere else, and for a moment, Charles looked as if he were just about to, but the young master only muttered under his breath before turning his attention back to his book, glare never leaving his face. 

Counting it as a small victory, Erik continued to read the newspaper. All of the staff passed the daily paper around throughout the day, taking their turns to read through the one they had. Usually, Erik only got his hands on it just before bed, but he'd managed to snare today's as he prepared the tea tray, snatching it from Carol as she bustled through the kitchen. The staff had been whispering about the news it brought all day, too, so Erik needed to read it himself to get the full story.

 **Big Air Battle Over London _,_** the headline of The Observer read.  **"Reprisal" For Attacks On Berlin.***

Erik's stomach twisted in a knot as he pored over the report. The previous afternoon, German planes had flown over London to drop bombs, severely damaging several quarters of the city. There had been nearly 100 minutes of warfare and an unknown number of casualties before the scores of his own countrymen's fighters had been shot down. An accompanying photograph showed what looked to be a pile of rubble on a hazy, debris-strewn street, but the caption indicated that it was once a warehouse in some London borough called the East End. 

And then, Erik read on, that night, after the original attack ceased, another had begun in the night. By the time of publication, the damage from the second attack had not been fully assessed.

"Is that odd?"

Erik was quickly pulled out of the report, feeling nearly dizzy. His brain needed a moment to assess what had just been asked of him, but rebooted quickly when it realized that Charles had asked him the question.

Usually, Charles didn't start conversations with him, but there the boy was, peering over his book with that veiled expression he often wore, awaiting an answer. 

"Is what odd, sir?"

Charles lowered his book into his lap, marking his page by folding the corner. "Reading in English. English isn't your mother tongue."

Erik huffed a bit. Not at Charles, but at the statement. "English is not even my fourth language." 

That seemed to surprise Charles, those dark eyebrows shooting up to reveal more of those big blue eyes. He looked even younger when he did that, features soft and delicate, like a porcelain doll. "You're fibbing."

"I have two mother tongues," Erik replied.

"That's not possible."

"Well, I do," Erik told him with a shrug, meeting his inquisitive gaze. He noted briefly to himself that this was the longest conversation that the two had shared that didn't involve an argument. _Bloody Carol_ , he thought. _Why did she have to be right?_

"Well, what are they?" Charles demanded then. "German and....?"

"Hebrew," Erik finished. "My family uses them interchangeably."

Charles, again, looked surprised. "You're Jewish?"

This time, Erik's huff was at Charles's expense. "You didn't know that?"

"Well, you don't have much of an accent," Charles snapped, obviously defensive. "And I don't ask the religions of those I meet straight away."

"You asked if I was a refugee straight away."

"Your country is warring with the western world. I assumed that there were many refugees."

"You weren't incorrect," Erik said, eyes flicking back down to the paper. He knew that plenty of staff in the house disliked him for his nationality, and he couldn't blame them. His own country, his home, had turned against him, too. A small war raged within Erik as well, because he loved Germany– _his_ Germany. Where hard work was rewarded with honest pay, where his fellow villagers greeted him each morning with earnest affection. The music in the tavern that he'd sneak into after his parents retired for the evening, the haunting comfort of temple. That was Germany, as Erik knew it. Germany wasn't the cruel declarations, the men in grey-green suits with that harsh black insignia on their shoulders. It wasn't marching troops, hatred toward difference, chilling ideas of "progress." It wasn't bombs dropped on innocent people.

"What else do you speak?" Charles asked.

"Yiddish, Polish, English, French. Enough Spanish to get by," Erik answered, unsure why Charles was so surprised. Plenty people from home spoke several languages. 

Charles hummed, eyebrows narrowed now as he observed the newspaper in Erik's lap. "You didn't answer my question. If it's odd."

Erik turned his eyes to the newspaper as well, and then shook his head. "Not with English, no. My mother collected books and insisted that they be in their original language. She always said that it was disingenuous to read a translation. So, when she taught me to read as a child, I learned to read in several tongues."

Erik looked up to catch Charles closing his own volume to study the cover. Reading the spine, Erik saw that it was called  _The Creed of a Savoyard Priest_ , which he did not recognize, but the author was Jean-Jacques Rousseau, which he did. His mother had one of his volumes in its original French. 

"I think reading a translation is better than reading nothing at all," Charles said defensively again, although his tone had less bite. 

"That was my mother's claim, not mine, sir," Erik reminded Charles. "The only text I don't care to read in a translation is the Torah."

Charles seemed oddly relieved by that, shrugged, and reopened his book. "Books from the library are not forbidden to you," the young master told him after he'd turned his eyes back to the text. "Though most are in English."

Erik smirked to himself as he himself situated the newspaper once more. It was a small victory, but he would take it. "Thank you, sir, I will keep that in mind. Will you please eat some of your sandwich? The cook will be cross with me if I bring back a full plate."

Without looking up, the young master reached out for the teacup, took a sip, and said, "No."

 

* * *

  

The young master hadn't spoken to Erik again as they sat and read in something akin to a companionable silence. It wasn't until the boy yelled out that Erik looked up to see the teacup spilled over the his lap, Charles' book quickly dropped to the floor to save it from soaking. 

"Bloody, blasted hand," the young master hissed. Erik looked to it, and frowned. The bony hand that had been clutching his teacup was curled unnaturally, clawlike fingers twisted in a painful-looking knot. He could see his thumb and forefinger twitch and spasm in motions too quick to be voluntarily, with the muscles underneath translucent skin pulsing. Instantly, Erik found himself at the young man's side, unsure of what to do.

"Sir," Erik breathed, his own hands tense, waiting for his orders. "Sir, what's happening? Do you need...do I need to call someone?"

" _No,"_ Charles hissed dangerously, venomous stare rising to meet Erik. "I'm fine. Don't do anything."

By that point, Charles' hand had relaxed enough for his fingers to uncurl, and he used his other hand to rub at his palm. Whatever had happened to the young master's hand was clearly involuntarily, unwelcome. And that worried Erik, as he did not want his charge to fall ill under his supervision.

"Master Charles, I should–"

"You should get this bloody teacup off of me before it soaks a hole through the floor, shouldn't you?" Charles spat, gesturing at his lap.

Indeed, all of the tea had spilled in his lap, soaking a wet puddle into the large quilt draped over his body. Erik quickly snatched the empty cup and replaced it on the tray before carefully removing the sodden quilt and folding it over his arm. With a frown, Erik noticed that the grey wool blanket around the boy's legs was also damp, so he dropped to his knees and began the work of untwisting the fabric. 

Erik was always careful around the young master's legs. Not only because Charles let out noises of disapproval whenever he touched them, but because they were so supremely tiny that he was afraid he might bruise or break them with just a touch too careless. Each night and morning as Erik helped him dress, he performed a private examination of those legs, searching for...well, he didn't know what he was searching for, but he wanted to make sure that they looked as they had before. Charles couldn't feel anything below his hips, apparently, and Carol explained that they could even be broken without the young master noticing. Erik tried to be as sly as he could, only sparing the most casual of glances to them as he took in everything he could, but somehow, Charles always seemed to notice that he was looking. 

"Spilled tea won't break my legs," Charles snapped as if hearing Erik's thoughts.

Erik's frown deepened, but he finished sliding off the blanket. Luckily, the tea didn't dampen the boy's trousers, so Erik gathered the two blankets in his arms and stood back up. Uncovered by heavy cloth, the boy, impossibly, looked even smaller. His crisp brown button-down looked like an empty sack on his frame. Even the collar was loose where it was buttoned to the top. He always wore the smallest belt, tightened to the furthest loop, but Erik was sure that if the boy could stand, his trousers would slide down. He could also see the boy's narrow shoulders contract even further, probably accosted by a chill that only he felt.

"I'll go replace these, sir," Erik told the boy. "Do you need anything else?"

Charles' shook his head once, bent over to snatch his book, and furiously resumed reading. 

 

Quickly, Erik made his way to the laundry press. Not only did he hope to soak the tea stains before they set, he also wanted to cover Charles back up. It wasn't affection that had Erik fussing so fervently, because Charles was still little more than a thorn in his side, but something about the way his hand had seized up, about how small and frail the boy's body was, worried him. It wasn't natural, nor was it healthy. If Madame Xavier was concerned for her son's welfare, she didn't look it, and it was clear to Erik that neither Cain nor Kurt appreciated Charles' presence, either. Only the staff ever spoke of his state. Erik overheard a few stewards murmuring to each other about how the young master looked "skeletal," and a porter once told Carol that he'd seen the boy for the first time in months, and that he was shocked by the pallor of his skin. 

"Are those my brother's?"

Erik dropped the blankets in the wash basin and spun around to find Raven standing beside line of drying clothes, holding a pair of stockings. It was a Sunday afternoon, so Raven was to be headed back to her boarding school a handful of towns over soon. Erik hadn't spoken with her since the day he arrived at the mansion, when she asked if he was Charles's new slave.

"Yes, ma'am," Erik replied, glancing at the now fully submerged blankets. 

It was unusual to see one of the members of the family in the laundry press, but Raven didn't seem to mind the drab surroundings as she crossed the space between them to peer into the basin. "What happened?"

"A spilled teacup," Erik said cautiously. "Not a big matter. I'm doing what I can to remove any stains."

Raven pursed her lips as she stared at the blankets, a small, knowing twist knotting at her lips. "Did his hand spasm?"

Erik raised his eyebrows. So, this wasn't the first time this had happened. "I believe so. He instructed that I refrain from alerting anyone, however."

"Of course he did," Raven said, backing away from the basin to lean against the counter. "That mule will be on the verge of death before he calls for help."

Erik knew that he wasn't allowed to agree with Raven out loud, but he expected that she was correct. Most definitely a mule. "Has this happened before, ma'am?"

Raven sighed, twisting the stockings in her hands a bit. "The doctors told us that the injury to his spine did something to all of his muscles. Not just his legs," she said, frowning at the ground. "His legs won't ever move again, but the parts that still work are also slightly broken. Something about nerves. I don't know."

Erik hadn't known that it was possible to have an injury in one part of the body affect others so directly before coming here. He now vaguely understood that the spine somewhat controlled mobility, but he was still learning of all of the other problems that arose. Again, Erik experienced another pang of sympathy for the boy. Not one strong enough to wash away the general feeling of distaste, but one that made Erik again reconsider the boy's situation. 

"Is there anything I can do to help him?" he asked finally.

Raven smirked darkly. "Pray that it doesn't happen again at one of our mother's dinner parties," she said sharply. "Last month, he dropped a spoonful of soup while the Frosts were over. I don't think my mother will ever forgive him for that."

Erik frowned. "Well, that wasn't his fault, was it?"

Raven shrugged, pushing herself from the counter as she made to exit the press. "That's an argument you can take up with her, if you'd like," she said, shaking her head as she crossed the threshold. "See you on Friday."

 

Once Erik had tracked down two additional blankets, he hurried back up to the library. Charles remained where Erik left him, but now, Erik could see the raised gooseflesh on the young master's wrists and neck. He first draped a blanket around his shoulders, allowing Charles to make the adjustments himself, and then knelt to swaddle those spindly legs in the second, thicker blanket. "Apologies for the delay, sir," Erik said after Charles tightened the first cloth around his body as if he'd been out in a freezing storm. "Would you like me to start a fire?"

Charles seemed to consider it for a moment before shaking his head no. "I imagine you'll be whisking me to dinner soon, so no matter."

An improvement from the snotty  _no_ he'd expected the young master to hiss, so Erik merely nodded before he stood back upright. 

As he did, his hip knocked the edge of the tea tray. "Oh," Charles said quietly as the thing slid from the surface and toward the wooden floor, and before he could stop himself, Erik reflexively extended his arm, seized the invisible fields around the metal try, and suspended it in mid-air. The pot only bounced slightly and the sandwich fell to the ground, but nothing shattered.

And then Erik froze. 

The tray remained floating an inch above the table, hanging in place at Erik's behest. The German's mouth was slightly agape, unable to find words as his grey eyes looked toward the boy. Charles stared directly at the tray, his own mouth open and wordless.

"Sir, I..."

Erik had no words to finish his sentence, gooseflesh now raising on his own skin. He was done. He knew that he was done. Charles would tell his mother and step father what he saw Erik do, and they would turn him away. Or have him arrested. Or call the government to come haul him away. There was no place for Erik's alien, freakish ability to do something like this, especially not in a proper English country house. 

Charles finally directed his gaze to Erik, their eyes meeting for a prolonged, desperate moment. The boy's expression was one of shock. Disbelief. 

And then, he smiled.

 _Well,_ said a voice in Erik's head, in unmistakably proper and instantly recognizable English. _That was unexpected._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Ton vi ir zent dertseylt tsu ton, lib - Do as you're told, love. (That's Google Translate's Yiddish, so if anyone has a better translation, shoot it my way!)
> 
> * This is an actual report from September 8th, 1940, the day after the first day of The Blitz. If you're not familiar with it, Wikipedia has a pretty good entry: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blitz
> 
> In short, every single day from September 1940 to May 1941, German bombers flew over London and other parts of England to drop bombs. The destruction was immense.


	3. Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik snoops and speculates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Near the end of the chapter, there are some pretty dark, ableist thoughts. I don't intend to be ableist, but it's Erik's first real encounter with someone with a disability like Charles', and he's simply trying to get into Charles' head a bit to understand him better.
> 
> If only he was the telepath, eh?
> 
> Thanks again for reading.

**_September 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England._ **

"What amazes me most, perhaps," said Erik as he untied the laces of the young master's shoes, "is that you could read my mind, and you _still_ did not know that I'm Jewish, sir."

Charles scoffed. "It's not as if you broadcast your religion at all times."

"I halfway think in Hebrew."

"All I hear is a foreign language. I assumed it was German."

"Hebrew sounds nothing like German," Erik said, finally pulling the leather loafer from Charles' stubbornly limp foot. "Yiddish is Germanic. Hebrew is something entirely different."

The expression on the young master's face let Erik know that his etymology lesson was less than appreciated.

It was only a few hours later, just after dinner, yet Erik felt like he was in an entirely different world. Prior to his slip up, Erik had believed that he was the only person in the world who possessed an ability like this, one beyond typical human capabilities. He'd assumed that God had given it to him as either a gift or a curse, but only him, because of some predetermined reason that he had yet to find.

But, he'd been wrong. And Charles didn't manipulate metallic objects. He read minds, something that he said was called "telepathy." Charles could hear thoughts, speak to others in their head, plant ideas, manipulate behavior....things that Erik never even imagined could exist, really. He would be scared of Charles' seemingly immense power if he wasn't so fascinated. And relieved, that he wasn't the only person on Earth who was different. So, so relieved.

Charles, however, had known that he wasn't alone already, because another person with such abilities lived in this house. Raven, apparently, possessed the means to transform her appearance into whatever she chose. The petite blonde visage was something of her design already; according to Charles, her natural skin color was blue and hair color was bright red. The idea sent Erik's head into a tailspin, and only when Charles promised that he would try to convince his sister to show him when she was next home did Erik believe the boy.

"Let me see you do something again," Charles demanded once Erik had both of his shoes off. They were in Charles' room and he was supposed to be readying the young master for bed, but the pair had been too occupied with their revelation that the shoes were as far as Erik had gotten. It was nearly nine, and Charles was still in his wheelchair, dressed, and unbathed, putting them far behind schedule. And yet, Erik couldn't find it in him to care too much about that at the moment.

"Someone may see, sir," Erik said, still wary to show the boy anything further.

"I'll know if we're going to be interrupted," Charles reminded him, tapping his temple once.

Erik smiled briefly, but hesitated, finally reaching his hand up, feeling for the deadbolt on the door, and slipping it shut.

"That doesn't count," protested the young master. "Show me something fun."

So demanding, the boy was. Erik was overwhelmed by this new development, this knowledge that he wasn't alone in the world. Extremely overwhelmed. His instincts to hide and guard his abilities were still strong, and it wasn't necessarily a relief to put them on display, yet. In fact, it terrified him a bit. "Let me get you into bed, and then I'll consider it."

_No._

The voice in his head was louder, clearer than any voice that could speak out loud. It didn't have the same whinging edge that the young master's speaking voice did when he disagreed with Erik about something. It felt fuller, more powerful. More authoritative.

Charles' face had hardened again into a glare, although, somehow, he looked less petulant than he had before to Erik.

"Sir, it's nearly nine, and you're supposed to be–"

_I know when I'm supposed to be in bed,_ Charles interrupted, raising his chin defiantly. Erik could almost feel the young man in his head now, a presence that wasn't necessarily physical. A shadow of pressure, a memory of warmth. Erik could not fight it. _But, I'm 16 years old, aren't I? Nearly a man. I don't think that it's too much to ask to stay up a touch later._

Erik had to admit that he had a point. They were the same age, and if someone tried to enforce a bedtime on him, Erik knew he would have a hard time taking it seriously. Just, ever since their first meeting when Charles threw a pillow at him and tried to refuse to get out of bed for the day, Erik had been committed to forcing the young master to follow each rule set for him on principle. Without question. Madame Xavier, as well as Charles' doctor, had a fairly strict regimen for him, and Erik had been following it to a T. And it hadn't even bothered him to do so. Charles was a brat, and he did not think twice about angering a brat.

He hadn’t thought twice, anyway, before this moment.

An involuntary sigh left Erik's body then, and he leaned against the closed wardrobe, crossing his arms over his body. He was suddenly exhausted, as if this brief pause to consider a deviation opened a pair of floodgates. "Nine is rather early for a boy your age to be forced to bed," Erik conceded, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Your mother says that you need your rest."

Those piercing blue eyes rolled, but Charles sat up a bit straighter in his chair. _My mother knows nothing of my needs. She wants me out of her way, is all._

"Alright, but your doctor says the same, too." During Erik's first week, Mr. Colson gave Erik a quick overview of all of Charles' doctor's instructions, which were kept neatly in the scullery drawer. The still mysterious accident had caused a host of new requirements for the young master's care, and it was Erik's duty to ensure they were all met. Rest, nutrition, and warmth were primary, and while Erik could only try to get Charles to eat more, the rest was something he'd been doing fairly well at.

_I lie awake until past midnight each day anyway,_ Charles challenged, still speaking with his strange and fascinating ability, keeping his eyes trained on Erik. _I fall asleep long after you nearly every night._

Erik raised an eyebrow at Charles and was about to ask how he would know, but as that presence in his head pressed down a little further, his question was answered. "Just a touch longer, then," Erik relented, allowing this defeat to wash over him. "You can lie awake as long as you please, but I can't go to bed until I've got you settled, and I have to be up and alert two hours before you, sir."

Charles seemed to accept the concession, smiling in a way that was half smug, half pleased. "Fine. Now, show me something else."

Erik looked about the large bedroom. It was still tidy from his long cleaning session yesterday, books now neatly stacked instead of strewn about. There was plenty of metal in the room that he could feel; curtain rods, pens, buttons and belts. The largest, most interesting piece of metal, however, rested right in front of him, surrounded by wood and wicker. The wheels and axle of Charles' wheelchair were made of an interesting blend of iron and something else that he couldn't place. It was thick and sturdy and would do its job of holding the young master upright, but it was too heavy, too stiff for its purpose. Charles couldn't wheel himself for more than a few feet, and Erik never liked carrying the thing up and down the stairs without his abilities.

Reaching out, Erik felt at the space around the chair. It was interesting indeed, but he didn't like the way it felt in his grasp. There was too much wood to make it comfortable, and the wheels now felt more like the wheels of his father's plough. They should be lighter than this. Maybe steel and aluminum rather than iron. Iron made the thing feel positively medieval.

With his hand extended toward Charles, Erik carefully pulled the wheels forward, and then lifted them from the ground, just an inch or two. He had never lifted anything so large, and with such necessary delicacy. It was a challenge. The young master shrieked as he was moved and gripped at the armrests with those bony fingers, but seemed too amazed to demand that Erik put him down. He peered over the side of the chair, never releasing his vice grip, and remained wide-eyed until Erik gently lowered him back down to the ground.

Erik exhaled deeply after releasing the wheelchair, slumping onto a nearby footstool as if his body was too tired to hold its own weight. It _was_ too tired to hold its own weight, for the moment. He had only ever practiced control on silverware, marbles, dishes. Things that could be dropped without much consequence. Toppling Charles out of the chair wasn't an option.

"You looked terrified," the young master said, fingers loosened but still clutching the wooden armrests.

Erik glanced up. From where he sat, Charles towered nearly a foot over his own head. He vaguely wondered if this is how Charles felt all the time, surrounded by standing people. "Just focused, sir. I've never lifted something so heavy before."

"You haven't?" Charles pressed, surprised.

"No. I'm not typically in the business of using this ability of mine," Erik replied, reaching out to merely feel at that strange metal again. "People tend to notice if there are large, floating objects about."

Charles seemed to consider that, and then leaned back. As he did, a large, violent shudder ran through Charles' upper body, teeth chattering momentarily. Erik cocked a brow. "Are you chilled, sir?"

"I'm fine," Charles retorted curtly, tightening his blanket around that tiny upper body of his. "I felt a draft, is all."

Erik knew well that there was no draft in this room. It was early September. Warm, still, the nights not yet dipping low enough to require any proper coat. At home, only the latest days of September saw chilly mornings and brisk nights, and while he knew that England had a milder, drabber climate, the weather had still been warm and dewy. Where Erik would sweat and flush, Charles would shiver and draw his blankets around him. There was not an ounce of fat on the young master's body to insulate him, no separation between skin and bone. By the day, it was growing more worrisome.

"Would you like a bath now, then?" he asked as he stood from his footstool. "To warm you up."

Amazingly, the young master agreed.

Erik wasn't particularly fond of the evening routine. Dressing and undressing a boy his own age was still uncomfortable, even after he'd grown fairly accustomed to it. Charles never allowed him to stay in the ensuite while he bathed, so after helping Charles into the tub of hot water, he busied himself with other things about the bedroom. Usually, Erik tidied the books, hung clothes, changed linens, or caught up on the chores he'd missed during the day, but tonight, he found that there was little to do.

Each morning, when handing out assignments, Mr. Colson reminded the staff that there was always something to do and if they felt bereft of a task, they weren't doing their job. Erik's chore list was much shorter than most others, as most of his day was occupied by the young master and his needs. It was within his domain, however, to ensure that Charles' room was clean, his clothing was pressed and ready, and his linens were changed every other day. All things relating to Charles aside from meals were Erik's responsibility, but the boy, picky as he was, required surprisingly little. For most of the day, Charles simply sat in the library or his room and read. He did have a habit of leaving books, teacups, pens, and parchment wherever he went, but those things were easy enough to clean.

He wasn't like Cain, the brutish step brother who Erik disliked more and more each day. Cain often burst into the manor in his polo or rugby clothes, tracking mud onto the floor and leaving sweat-caked gear about. Charles had once sent him into Cain's bedroom to see if his step brother had taken a notebook of his (he hadn't) only to enter a maze of discarded clothing, spent cigarettes, magazines. It reeked of sweat and tobacco. Erik was glad to be out of there and pitied whoever it was that had to tidy his space each day.

Charles, though, didn't make much mess. The boy couldn't, really, not with his current setup. His wheelchair was restrictive and divisively immobile, leaving him unable to spread mess or do much of anything, really. It made Erik's job easier, but it made him a bit...sorrowful, for the boy. Stuck in that chair all hours of the day, unable to come and go as he pleased due to simple faults in design. Perhaps if he had a better chair, his mood would improve. Offer him independence that he seemed to crave and rebuke at the same time.

Without having to ask, Erik knew that the Madame would not be interested in buying Charles a new chair. And Kurt, who seemed to control the family purse strings, clearly held no fondness for his stepson, so it was unlikely that he would pay for it, either. Frustrated, Erik reached out again for the metal in the room, halfway thinking that he would make Charles a new wheelchair himself, feeling around to see how many other materials would be better.

There was a small _thud_ in a bureau, tucked against the wall beside a window. _Verdammt_ , he thought to himself, frowning as he hurried over. He'd knocked something over in it, too careless with his abilities. He would have to reign himself in. Could not risk exposure.

The bureau door creaked slightly when Erik opened it, and a small glint from the bottom caught his attention when it shone in his eye. The metal sang to him as he bent over to retrieve what he'd knocked down, frowning when he pulled up a small gold-colored medal hanging on a blue ribbon. It was a flat, circular medal, smaller than an orange, with some strange design engraved onto the face. Curious, Erik flipped it over and felt at the words etched into the surface, and then held it into the light to see:

**1939 SOUTHERN REGIONAL AQUATICS TRIALS**

**500M - 1ST PLACE**

**CF XAVIER**

With a small start, Erik realized that it was a trophy. The entire bureau was stuffed with medals, plaques, trophies. There had to be dozens. Some were a darker bronze, others were silver, but most were gold, like the one in his hand. All were for accomplishments in swimming. A layer of dust blanketed the collection, the shining metal dulled as it lay in disorganized heaps on shelves. From what Erik could see without examining them individually, they all belonged to Charles. Among the piles, Erik spotted a photograph, which his curiosity forced him to dislodge.

Charles was the star of the black and white print, but it didn't look like the Charles he knew. The Charles in the photograph stood up on his two legs and sported no less than six medals around his neck, each displayed in a row on his chest. He wore a swimming costume, and his hair appeared wet. The largest difference between this Charles and the one in the bathroom, though, was the _vitality_ that shouted from the photograph. This Charles smiled, a beaming and powerful grin, and had bright eyes. His face had no trace of gauntness, and his posture screamed confidence. There were real _muscles_ in his arms, proudly forming triangles around his body where his hands came to rest on narrow hips. His chest was puffed forward slightly, and underneath the ring of medals, Erik could see muscle. Very lean, still, but real meat and muscle coating his bones.

The difference was more than shocking. A quick glance at the back of the photograph told Erik that the photo had been taken in February, 1939. Just a year and a half ago. How could this boy, so strong, confident, smiling have melted away so quickly? How could all of that vibrance have withered into the ghostlike shell that Charles now was?

Staring at the photograph made Erik's stomach twist; it was almost cruel to look. He felt like a voyeur, peeking in on someone else's secret, a secret which he wasn't meant to be privy.

It wasn't fair, that the young master reduced so much. That, Erik knew, had to ache.

_I've finished. You can retrieve me, unless you'd prefer to let me drown,_ said Charles in his head. The irony was cruel. A champion swimmer, wondering if Erik would allow him to drown in five inches of water.

The twist in his stomach still sickening his body, Erik carefully replaced the medal and the photograph back on the shelf, shut the bureau, and crossed the room to collect the young master from his current prison.

* * *

The attacks from the Germans did not stop. Each day, the paper brought news of yet another air battle over London from the previous night, recounting the damage both human and property. The Germans seemed unbridled, willing to send men into battle each day with full knowledge that most would be shot down and killed. And the English seemed stalwart. Accounts of the prime minister's comments were always confident, empowering, despite the death and destruction of innocent lives each day.

Still, the fear began to creep up Erik's spine. They were several hours from London, he knew, several hours from any large city and safely tucked away in a forgotten townland, but the ruthlessness was always a painful reminder of the war that raged within. 

He wasn't alone in his fear and distaste for all things German at the moment, either. Several other staff members eyed him with scrutiny, throwing him dirty looks or stopping to glare when he passed. One day, a young maid named Gwen stormed up to him in tears and demanded that he go back to where he came from because he wasn't welcome here. She ranted and raved and called him a swath of angry things, and he just stood there, unable to think of anything to say, basking in her anger.

Mr. Colson finally burst in and told her that yelling was inappropriate, that she needed to leave to take a walk through the grounds to calm herself. She shot Erik a venomous glare, but listened to Mr. Colson as they all did and stomped away.

"It isn't fair of me to be too cross with her," the older man admitted once he and Erik were alone in the kitchen. It was rare to catch Mr. Colson alone and in an instance where he had a moment to talk, but the man seemed, for once, without urgency. "Her family home in was destroyed last night by the bombs."

Erik frowned at his feet, fingers curling into fists. "That is very unfortunate. But, I had nothing to do with that. I'm unwelcome in Germany, too."

"I know, Mr. Lehnsherr," said Mr. Colson evenly, a hint of warmth in his no-nonsense voice, before clearing his throat and standing up straighter. "And is Master Charles well?" he asked, diving straight back into business as if there had been no interlude.

It had been a week and a half since Erik had discovered the trophies and the photograph, since the two had uncovered each other's secret abilities. Erik could not stop thinking about the differences he saw between the two versions of Charles, spread apart by time. Whenever he lifted the boy and felt his lightness and bones, he had to imagine him how he was before. Sturdy, strong, active. It was hard, because he had to make sure he wasn't thinking too loudly--Charles told him that he didn't really pry into people's thoughts, but could hear what he called projections--but his mind couldn't help but wander back to that bureau full of accolades and triumphs for his physical capabilities.

"I believe he is," Erik said, a bit skeptically. "He is...very thin. And dislikes eating."

Mr. Colson looked uncomfortable, as if he'd been trying to force himself not to regard it. "Yes, well. His appetite was likely affected by his injury."

Erik hadn't thought about that, but it still didn't make him any less ill. "I'm not sure what to do," he admitted. 

"His doctor will be visiting this week for a routine check. I'm sure any crucial matters will be addressed then."

There was a small bit of relief, but it didn't alleviate Erik's worry. "Yes, sir."

 

Mr. Colson quickly seemed to realize that their standing around and chatting was less than productive, so he bustled away and told Erik to go tend to his duties. However, the day was so brilliant and sunny, summer's final farewell, that Erik wanted to spend the afternoon in the fresh air if he was allowed. Autumn would be here in just a week or so, and then a long, dark winter would follow.

The young master's schooling had finished for the day, so it was with a tray of tea and a sandwich yet again that Erik made his way into the library. Recently, he'd taken to sitting and reading across from Charles for a small while before his duties took him elsewhere, but today, he intended to obtain permission from Charles to find work in the gardens. Charles rarely needed anything between tea and supper, and perhaps the young master had been a touch less shirty with him this past while. He didn't think that Charles would have a problem with it.

Except, as Erik approached Charles in his same corner of the library, he discovered the young master fast asleep, open book in his lap. Still in his chair and swaddled in blankets, Charles sat with his eyes shut and mouth slightly ajar, head titled to the side. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath his blanket, breathing in and out with just a minute sound. 

Erik paused in his tracks. The boy had been particularly difficult to rouse that morning with claims that he' not fallen asleep until nearly 3 A.M., but Erik couldn't allow him to skip breakfast, so up he went. Now, as he sat in his chair, head lolled in an awkward position, Erik half wished that he'd let him sleep. Both Carol and Mr. Colson had let him know that the young master was often sore and aching from his injury and his body's limitations even still, so Erik imagined how sleeping in this position might pain his muscles even further. 

Abandoning the tray of tea, Erik set to push the wheelchair from the library and to the young master's bedroom so that he could rest more comfortably. He used his abilities to help him along, trying to smooth the rough and jerky ride, but it soon became clear that the chair was too stiff to alleviate every bump, and Erik didn't want to wake him. He would carry him instead. A much smoother, more comfortable mode of transport. And it would be no stress on Erik, either, the boy was  _that_ light.

Erik stopped the chair and moved around to gather Charles in his arms. The sun shone brilliantly through the library's high windows, illuminating the young master's face in a white glow, and Erik had to pause to look. In the sunlight, it was even more evident how pale he was. Dark, bruise-like circles framed his big eyes and his hollow cheeks were sunken. His rosy lips looked almost like wax, slightly cracked, unhealthy. In the month and a half that he'd been at the manor, Erik had never seen Charles out of the building. He had offered to take him a few times, but, of course, each offer was met with harsh rejections and a resolution to stay even further away from the sun. Judging from the pallor of his skin, the boy hadn't been outside all summer. Or spring, or winter. 

Erik's next move was clear, then. He bent over, carefully collected the boy and his blankets in his arms, ensured that he hadn't jostled him too much to wake, and carried him toward the doors leading to the garden of the manor. As expected, the sun was big and bright in the sky, which was blue and dotted with only distant, high clouds. It was warm but not too hot, the faintest breeze bending the groomed flowers only fractionally. A perfect late summer afternoon. Charles didn't even stir in Erik's hold, his head supported by Erik's bicep and legs dangling limply, lifelessly. Just like a doll.

He found a bench in direct sunlight, far enough away from the house that he was sure they wouldn't be seen immediately and sat down. It took a moment to position Charles in his arms so that his head and neck were supported on Erik and the rest of his body lay out across the bench. Once he had him settled, Erik couldn't help but gaze down at the boy, pale, tiny, and weak, and wonder how ended up like this. Underneath that tightly-wrapped wool blanket, his legs were  _rotting_ away against his bones, growing smaller, sicker by the day. Erik's eyes were always drawn to them when they were uncovered, a sort of sick fascination, imagining how they must feel like an added, unnecessary weight. Charles couldn't use half of his body, and the other half was quickly deteriorating as well.

Erik sighed and brushed some dark hair from Charles' forehead as he slept on, willing the sun's warmth to inject some of that attitude he'd seen from the photograph into the boy's translucent skin.

Maybe it was all by design. Maybe Charles wanted to grow so weak and ill that he simply...vanished. His misery at his current state could have snowballed into something so severe that he no longer wanted to exist. Which, Erik felt with a pang, was extraordinarily sad. Despite his recent coldness, the staff all still seemed to think well of Charles. They were certainly more fond of him than they were of Cain-that was clear. And they worried for him, too. He thought of Mr. Colson, the true professional, and how his face darkened with concern when Erik mentioned his thinness. And the rest of the staff, who always paused to watch as Erik walked by with the young master, as if they hoped to see an improvement. There never was one, of course. Charles refused to improve. They couldn't force him to, stubborn and smart as he was. And if Charles didn't want it, it wouldn't happen.

In his arms, Charles finally stirred. His placid, sleeping face tensed, closed eyes tightening for a moment before fluttering open. Those blue eyes were glassy, and then alert as he took in his surroundings. 

"Where am I?" he asked, quiet and unsure as he looked up at Erik.

"In the garden, sir," Erik replied. He hadn't really thought this through very well, he realized, as he'd hoped to have the young master back inside before he woke. "It's such a lovely day, and I thought some sunlight might be nice."

Charles' expression immediately changed. The confusion and uncertainty folded away quickly, eyes narrowing and face hardening. Haphazardly, the young master dislodged his tiny arms from his blanket cocoon and used them to jerkily push himself up into a seated position. Midway through, he let out a pained hiss, body wincing violently, an invisible force jarring his body like an electric current. The boy cried out, body curling in on itself, like flower wilting at super speed. The motion caused Charles to lose his balance on the bench, and before Erik could stop him, he fell to the dirt path in a pained heap, a dusty cloud rising around him. 

"Charles!" At once, Erik was kneeling at his side, shoving his arms underneath Charles' body to pull him upright, but the boy swatted at him, teeth grit in anger. 

"Stop! Get away from me," he hissed, jerking and wriggling on the ground in an attempt to distance himself. "Why, in the name of  _God,_ did you bring me out here?"

Erik could feel the poison in his voice, anger spilling out from his every pore, and he was suddenly overcome with guilt and shame. "It's a nice day, sir, and I thought that some fresh air would be ni-"

"You  _thought_ that you could just take me where you pleased, like I'm some infant in a pram?" the boy spat, again using his arms to push himself upright. This time, he didn't double over and fall, and he held Erik's gaze with his own alight eyes. "You can't bloody  _do_ that, you thick-headed twit! Where's my chair?"

Erik's open mouth popped shut, lowering his eyes to the dirt below him. Charles didn't need to be a telepath to make his anger clear; Erik could feel it burn his through his skin. "It's inside, sir. I carried you."

There was a heavy silence between them as Erik's eyes remained averted, color rising in his cheeks, and when Charles spoke again, it felt like the crack of a whip on his bare back. "Take me back."

He didn't need to be told twice. With a nod, Erik carefully moved to pull Charles back up in his arms. Now, Erik felt as if he was transferring stolen property, shamefully taking something that wasn't his back to its rightful place. The young master was unaccommodating, stiff as wood, face a deadly mask. 

Once back in the library, Erik settled Charles back in his chair, unable to meet the young master's eyes. The silence was thick and heated still, Charles' jaw set and eyes steely. 

"Leave," the boy demanded the moment Erik pulled away. 

They were in the middle of the library now, the chair a good twenty feet from Charles' reading corner. 

"Sir, I can take you to-"

"LEAVE!" Charles roared as his fingers curled around his armrests, voice echoing throughout the cavernous library with more power than a boy of his stature should have. His white cheeks were now flushed with red, eyes filled with a rageful fire that looked one part hurt, ten parts vengeful.

It turned the hair on the back of Erik's neck up and sent his stomach to his feet. Pursing his lips, Erik nodded sharply, turned on his heel, and quickly walked from the library, breaking into a full on run as soon as he was out of the young master's terrifying sightline. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for comments and feedback <3


	4. Intention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation, a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: A very depressed Charles, and an ugly violent story near the end. 
> 
> This is a long ass chapter, so, be prepared.
> 
> Also, there's some German in this chapter, so if any German speakers have a better translation, send it my way! Thank you so much for reading and for all your kind comments--I can't express how much it means to get them!

_**September 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England.** _

"What are you doing?"

Erik stiffened, whipping around at the unexpected voice. Cain, all bulk and brawn, emerged from beyond the courtyard toward Erik's spot underneath a large Elm tree, carrying a polo mallet. The sun was setting now and the warm day was quickly becoming a balmy evening, the wind now a touch stronger. In the twilight, Erik could only discern Cain's silhouette until he was mere feet away. Once close, Erik could see that his dark hair was slick with sweat and his broad features were scrutinizing.

Erik tilted his head back to meet the young man's eyes, which, he noticed, were nearly black. As he knew that he would be fired anyway in mere moments, he decided not bother with niceties. "Sitting, sir."

Cain scoffed and rested his mallet on his shoulder, fixing his gaze on Erik. "Sitting. Shouldn't you be wiping my stepbrother's arse or something?" The young man's voice was low and powerful, but had a certain dullness to it that put Erik off. In fact, everything about Cain had put Erik off immediately--his coarse language, his brutish attitude, his pompous way of speaking. He would sneer at Charles, or, on the rare occasion that Charles offered a comment during a discussion, interrupt and overpower. 

Raising his chin, Erik leaned against the trunk of the Elm under which he'd been seated for the past several hours and narrowed his eyes in a challenge. "I've been dismissed, for the moment," he said with measured resistance in his voice. Whether he was dismissed just for the moment or for the remainder of his life, he didn't know, but he knew that he did not like the way Cain spoke so disparagingly of Charles. His stepbrother. Someone he was meant to care about and protect.

Erik watched as Cain began to swing the mallet now, twisting it in the air at his side. It narrowly missed Erik's shoulder by a few inches with each rotation, but the German, already sure that he was essentially done here at the Xavier manor, took care not to flinch. No, instead, he identified the metal band encircling the end of each face on the head and grabbed hold of the fields around them. He could probably prevent himself from being whacked, if that's what it took. There was little else to lose.

"Well, I undismiss you, boy," Cain said haughtily as he continued to rotate the mallet, a smirk now playing at his thin lips. "Get up."

Erik merely stared back. After weeks and weeks of doing everything and anything he'd been told to do by these people, it felt good to  _not_ listen. 

And apparently, Erik's stillness was not pleasing to the young master Marko, as he glared and swung his mallet faster. "Are you a moron? I said get up!"

"I don't work for you," Erik replied evenly, although he began to feel heat at the end of his fingertips and in his chest. 

"Like hell you don't work for me!" the young man spat, mallet coming to a forceful stop as it collided with the grass. Taking a long step forward, Cain leaned over and grabbed Erik by his shirt front and jerked, causing him to fall forward onto his knees. "You're just a filthy German rat, aren't you? Too poor in your own putrid country to survive," he hissed as he knelt to seethe into Erik's face. "You should be kissing my feet, rat! For allowing you the privilege of living in my house. Maybe if you don't respect me, we could get your filthy German mother in here instead--I'm sure we could put her to  _all_ sorts of work--and _she_ wouldn't have any problem thanking me!"

And just like that, Erik snapped.

All of the calm composure he'd schooled into his behavior over these past weeks burned away, replaced by electric malice. Cain's ugly face, just centimeters from his own, was the face of the Devil himself, the face of every gestapo, the face of that moustached tyrant that proclaimed Erik and his people to be the enemy.

The serene garden melted from view, as did the magenta sky and the silent whispers of an evening breeze. In that moment, only two entities existed: the twisted, hideous target of Cain's face, and the appealing songs of every metallic object in the vicinity. Suddenly, Erik felt every last ounce of the materials; the bolts in the gate, the frames on the windows. Piping, buttons, hinges, tools, automobiles, letterboxes. From the smallest needle in the scullery to something undefined and massive a few hundred yards away, every particle sang out to Erik, calling to him, inviting him to use his gift right there and forever. 

An invisible force radiated from the center of his chest, through his core and limbs, and then, finally to his extremities. It burned at the tips of his fingers and toes, and unable to stand the pain, Erik yelled out, kicking Cain off of him as he stormed to his feet. The other man stumbled backwards and landed on his haunches as Erik stood over him. Around them, a small sea of objects levitated in the air; the mallet, an iron bench, an abandoned garden hoe, a rusted toy. The surrounded Erik like soldiers surrounded a general, waiting for his command. Ready to bend to his will. 

Cain's usually confident mug was agape, wide-eyed as he took in the team of levitating items around Erik. And Erik himself must have looked a real sight, hands raised, eyes alight in unbridled rage. "Don't you dare--don't you  _dare_ talk about my mother like that, you overstuffed sack of horseshite," Erik seethed, his usually even voice electrified. He bored right into Cain's beetle eyes, daring him to blink or look away. The young master Marko did not accept the dare, frozen on the ground where he sat. "Neither I nor anyone in my family will ever work for or respect  _you_ ," he hissed, pulling his faithful army of objects closer to Cain, just in case the other wasn't sure who was in control here. 

"If you  _ever_ disrespect my family like that again, you'll wish you'd never crawled out of hell and landed in my way. Do you understand?" Erik continued, the heat in his fingertips grappling onto each object around him, ready to lunge them at the boy at any moment.

After sputtering for several seconds, Cain finally seemed to find his voice, although it was far weaker than it had been just moments ago. "You--you can't say that--I'll tell my father that---"

"That what?" Erik interrupted, raising a brow as he pushed the mallet just an inch from Cain's wide nose. "That the filthy German rat made your precious stick float in the air and that it was scary? That he's going to kill you by impaling it through your thick skull if you try to flex your muscles in his face again?" Erik challenged, just barely touching the tip of the mallet to Cain's nose now. "I'm sure he'll believe you, won't he? It sounds very, very rational."

Cain's eyes flew shut the moment the wood touched his skin, ham-like hands jerking up in the air in surrender. "I won't say anything! I won't say anything to my father, or about your family, just--just let me go!"

Erik did not move. He savored this moment. Savored this brand new feeling of having someone at his mercy. Savored the power he had over Cain, reveled in the fear that he'd instilled. Cain was a bully and a brat and deserved nothing less than this, and Erik felt like he was reborn as he held Cain in his grasp like this.

All of his pain, all of his anger flowed through his body and created a vice around each of the objects that floated around him. Pain of his losses, anger at his situation. Hurt, fear, discomfort, anguish, it all spilled out of him in a tidal wave, channeling itself into a powerful current that finally sang back to all of the material that had been calling to his senses for years and years. He held it all there, embracing his power in a way that was brand new and ancient all at the same time. 

Finally, Erik let the mallet drop. It landed with an unenthusiastic  _thump_ in the grass between Cain's feet. The boy's eyes popped open and found Erik once more, and when Erik drank in the fear that swam in those black irises, he smiled a wide, toothy grin.

 

The grin only left Erik's face once Cain disappeared into the mansion after scrambling to his feet and running faster than Erik had ever seen anyone run. His body trembled with unbound energy, awake at last after lying dormant for so long.

It was laughable that, just a few moments ago, Erik thought he'd only been able to lift chairs and bend spoons.

Something deep within him had awoken. It had been there his entire life, he realized, but he'd only just discovered it now. That extra sense, once just a dull tingle, now operated as powerfully as his eyes and ears. Even the metals within the Earth were palpable, buzzing at his skin, begging him to reach out with his strength and play. 

Long after his wave of wrath subsided to just a steady stream of ire, Erik sat back down under his Elm tree, ready to wrap a rational thought around his situation. He knew that, now, he wouldn't be staying at the manor any longer. Even if Charles' fury with him wasn't enough to get him terminated, there was no way that Cain wouldn't tell his father that Erik threatened him. Madame Xavier clearly had no care for the world around her, usually too drowned in drink to notice much, but Master Marko was not someone to be crossed. He liked things done properly, and upon discovering that the help was rude to his son, there would be no recourse. 

He could make it on his own. The village was only a twenty minute walk from the estate, and if he could find a place to sleep tonight, surely he could find work tomorrow. His accent wasn't thick enough to be obviously German, and he'd spent enough time in this godforsaken house that he could probably put on an English one if he had to. No one had to know his origin--he could pretend to be a displaced Londonder who'd run from the violence of the bombings to the quieter west. Eric Lawrence could be his new identity, all vestiges of his Judeo-Germanic roots stripped away, tossed to the ether. Whatever it took to survive would be done, because he now knew that he had the strength to do so.

And yet...

Night had properly fallen now, and Erik was still in the back garden, staked out underneath a regal Elm tree. The faintest scent of roasted lamb and vegetables rode from the direction of the manor on the wind. It was dinnertime, now. Prior to hurrying out of the home, Erik had managed to run into Carol, and then begged her to retrieve Charles and escort him to dinner in his stead when the time came that evening. She'd asked, of course, why Erik couldn't do it himself, and only after a promise that he'd explain later on did she agree to do so.

He wondered if the young master had pitched an argument with her, too, or if he'd told her everything that had happened earlier that afternoon. It was certainly a breach of their strict code of conduct to carry a sleeping Charles out to the garden, so Mr. Colson would be decidedly angry with him, undoubtedly. But, in the cool, clear evening, with the anger still pumping strong, Erik could formulate a strong justification for doing as he did.

Charles was ill. It was clear that he was. That photograph that he'd found proved that the boniness wasn't natural. It was acquired through some sort of sickness of the body or mind which sapped all vitality and will from the young master. In the month and a half that Erik had been in his employ, Charles only ever went into his bedroom, the dining room, and the library. Not once had he been outside, in the lounge, in the parlor, in the sitting room. Of the hundreds of rooms in the gargantuan mansion, Charles only visited three. The young master expressed no other wants or desires, and that lack of interest was causing his body to rot away.

Erik couldn't let Charles rot away. Something within him had, despite Charles's attempts to drive Erik away, clamped on to his role as caretaker to the boy. It was clear that his parents had little interest in him, and less attentive staff might allow Charles to get away with sleeping well past breakfast and skipping meals. He  _needed_ Erik, or someone like him, and that sense of responsibility wasn't easy to shake. 

It had been pure care, therefore, that had driven Erik to do what he did. Simply spending an afternoon in the sunshine instead of shut away in the dark could break a glum routine and breathe a bit of life into the listless boy. Sun on his skin, fresh air on his face. Nothing bad could have come from that. If he would have suggested it, Charles would have declined, so Erik had only done what any good caretaker would do. ....Right?

Erik groaned to himself, scrubbing his hand down his face. He wished that he could talk to his mother right now. She always knew what to say, in any situation. And sometimes, the smallest bit of reassurance did the very most. 

" _Folge deinem Herzen, Spatz,_ " she might say to him, both sternness and warmth conveying absolute authority. _"_ _Gott legt keine bösen Absichten in die Herzen guter Menschen." Follow your heart, Spatz. God does not put ill intention in the hearts of good people._

Yes, she would tell him to follow his heart. But was he really a good person? Good enough that God would never allow an evil intention to enter his heart? He'd once thought so--he'd thought that all he'd have to do was obey his family, pray, and help others in need to be a good person. It used to be so easy to do.

But, now, he had just held a weapon to a person's skull and threatened to kill him with it. He had basked in power, enjoyed the boost to his confidence and strength that overpowering another person had given him. Even now, almost an hour after the event, he still felt electrified. Could he be a good person and enjoy this sort of mania at the same time?

_You're expected to escort me to bed in just two minutes, so I suggest you get moving._

Erik's whizzing brain ground to a halt. He'd almost forgotten that Charles could talk to him like this, and if he hadn't been so wired, he might have marveled at it once more.

 _You can speak to me like this,_ too, Charles' voice continued, even, clear, emotionless.  _Think in a clear sentence, as if you're preparing to speak something out loud._

Well. Erik certainly hadn't expected this. He'd figured that he might sneak in after dinner and wait for a member of staff to find him, and then let the proceedings happen as they did. Never did he consider that Charles might reach out to him himself. Not after he'd been so furious. 

 _Eh...can you hear me?_ he tried after a few moments, unsure that he was communicating with Charles or simply letting his words echo in his own head. 

 _Yes. One_ _minute, now_.

Erik scrambled to his feet and began to jog toward the house.  _You want me to come collect you, sir?_

 _No,_ came the response, still emotionless and measured.  _But, Ms. Danvers is less than careful, so I'd rather you collect me than be dropped on my arse by a fussy woman from Birmingham._

* * *

No one even acknowledged Erik when he ducked into the dining room to retrieve the young master, which was typical. Kurt and Cain had already exited, as it seemed, so it was only Charles, Madame Xavier, and a few members of staff bustling about to clear the table. Charles looked his usual self--bored, thin, tired. He showed no signs of his earlier outburst, although Erik couldn't expect much from him when his mother was in the room.

"Sir, if you're ready...?" Erik said carefully as he stepped to Charles' side, like he always did. And when Charles gave his usual lackluster nod, Erik breathed out and began the work of taking Charles up to his bedroom.

So far, all seemed surprisingly normal. No one looked at him more peculiarly than they normally did, not even Mr. Colson when he scurried across the landing. It seemed, to Erik, that no one knew of their earlier skirmish. Or his stand-off with Cain. It was too early to feel any proper relief, though. Far too early. Maybe Charles was waiting to tell him off, or Cain hadn't yet cried to his father. Something could still be brewing underneath the surface, and Erik wouldn't be able to rest easy until he was sure there wasn't. 

Finally, Erik wheeled the heavy chair through the threshold of Charles' bedroom. His reinvigorated senses ached to be utilized to control the chair, but he bit back the temptation. There was too much unknown to risk something like that, at this very moment. 

"You successfully terrified my stepbrother," said Charles in that same, expressionless voice as soon as the door shut with a click. "That emotional scar may last his entire life."

Erik froze, hand still on the doorknob, body filled with renewed dread. 

"You both ought to think more quietly, if you don't want an audience," continued the young master. "I was unable to ignore your little show, though I did try very hard. And my stepbrother essentially screamed about it in his head all throughout dinner."

Erik's mouth ran dry as he turned around to face the young master. He'd forgotten what Charles had told him, that he couldn't help but bear witness to a scene when thoughts were loud, which usually occurred when emotions ran high. Undoubtedly, both he and Cain had been screaming in their heads, forcing Charles to listen in against his wishes.

"He should not have insulted my family," Erik finally said.

Charles pursed his lips, which formed the tiniest rosebud. "Of course not. He was not blessed with the gift of tact," said the boy. "Then again, neither were you."

The comment struck a chord with Erik, and he narrowed his eyes, taking a step toward the young master. "Before today, I've been  _supremely_ patient with you and your entire family," Erik said with an edge. "You've no idea just how much tact I have."

"Can it still be considered tact if it all falls apart one day?" Charles challenged, cocking a brow.

Erik could see how carefully the boy was composing himself now, a patched up shell holding everything in. Trying to preserve his own tact, probably. Working very, very hard to be the emotionless one. 

"I apologize that I made you angry earlier, sir, but I will not apologize for bringing you outside."

Their confrontation weighed heavily between them, and it was clear that Charles was not going to be the one to address it directly, so Erik dove right in. He watched Charles consider his words, which were obviously not what he'd been looking for, and derived the smallest bit of pleasure from that. "I didn't ask for an apology."

"You expect one, though," Erik replied, crossing the space to sit on the edge of Charles' plush bed so that he could be eye-level with the boy. Standing over him and talking down never felt right, especially when having a proper discussion. "But, I am not sorry that I took you where I did."

"I'm not a doll to be played with," Charles replied quickly, harshly, as if that thought had been bubbling in his head for awhile. "My condition does not give you or anyone the right to take me places against my will or without my knowledge."

Erik, still emboldened by his earlier revelation, raised his chin marginally. "As your caretaker, I made a decision that I felt would be in your best interest," he said, matching Charles' stubborn tone. He would not apologize for going out of his way to get Charles into the fresh air. It would have been far easier to leave the tea at the boy's side and spend the afternoon assisting the groundskeeper as he'd planned, but he'd changed it all to do something for Charles' benefit. His intention, he knew firmly, was pure.

"Would you have done the same with Cain? Raven? My mother?" Charles shot back, raising his chin as well.

"No, sir, but they--"

"They are not crippled," Charles interrupted, lips downturned as he locked Erik's eyes. "They're not stuck in one bloody spot, completely reliant on you for nearly every single component of day-to-day living. Their legs listen to them, take them where they want to go, allow them privacy and independence. Mine lie here uselessly, keep me bound to this godforsaken chair. I understand that," he hissed, commanding attention in his strange way. "But that does not give you freedom to do as you please with me."

Erik stared back into his blue eyes, seeing the anger as he always did, but there was something underneath, too. Hurt, probably. Anguish. Erik thought of the trophies collecting dust in the cabinet just feet away, relics of a life that Charles no longer had. A life where he'd been active, strong. He realized that this was the only time that Charles had ever spoken of his condition to Erik, acknowledged it for what it was. Of course, he had only met Charles in this state and did not know who he was before, so it was easy for Erik think of him as he was and not as he had been, or as he wanted to be. He had only assumed that Charles was upset with how things had turned out, but they'd never discussed it. Erik had never learned how Charles truly felt. 

"I did not mean to take advantage of you, sir," Erik said after a moment, tone a small bit softer. "I merely thought that some fresh air might be nice. You've not been outside since I've been here."

"What, then, would make you think that I might want to go out?" Charles retorted, defiant as ever.

"Precisely," Erik countered back, their eyes still locked. "You would never agree to it. And, frankly, I'm more worried about your health than I am your personal feelings with me."

"Oh, I didn't know that you're a doctor," Charles scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Tell me, how many minutes of sunlight does it take to cure smallpox, Dr. Erik?"

"I know that a few minutes per day would make you look less a skeletal ghost and more like a human being again," Erik fired back, unwilling to bend. "Or do you prefer to look frightening?"

"So, it's the color of my skin that's keeping all the pretty girls away? Well, then, I suppose we ought to go outside from dawn to dusk! I can't bear to frighten my swath of eligible brides, can I?"

"Charles, _please_ ," Erik said, nearly desperate as he stood and strode to the boy, kneeling down in front of him. In each of his hands, he took Charles' wrists, feeling their delicacy, their vulnerability under his fingers."I'm only trying to help. Can't you see? I'm  _worried_ about your health," he insisted, gently shaking those minuscule wrists in emphasis. "You hardly eat, you're chilled at all times, all you want to do is sleep. Each morning, I fear that when I come to wake you, you won't be alive any longer. I'm trying to do what I can, sir, anything I can."

Charles' expression had darkened, and he was no longer looking at Erik. Instead, his eyes were narrowed and fixed on his blanket-wrapped knees, thin and wasted underneath the fabric. He didn't fight against Erik's grip, either. "Would you even be bothered?" Charles finally asked, still focused on his knees. 

"What?"

"If you came in to wake me and found me dead instead," Charles said, turning his head to look at Erik once more. Now, his expression had no trace of anger, but had become something desperate and hurt, daring Erik to answer. "Why does it matter to you if I'm dead or alive? Your life would be a hell of a lot easier if I finally just died."

Erik's stomach sank. His fears surrounding the boy and his will to live had been confirmed, then. Still clutching Charles' wrists, Erik shifted forward, so close that he was now nearly touching the boy's legs. "I would not want you dead, sir," he said, quiet but firm, imploring Charles to understand. 

"You should. Why would you care? I've been horrible to you."

 _Because I do_ , Erik replied, hoping that his telepathic communication prompted the same type of clarity that Charles did for him. The boy obviously hadn't been expecting to be talked to like this, as his eyes widened and he stiffened just a bit, but Erik continued on.  _Yes, you've been difficult and cross with me nearly ever moment since I've arrived here. I expect you're doing that on purpose.. I'm not trying to counsel you, but I would like you to know that you do not have me fooled, sir. I know how the staff nurses a soft spot for you, how kind you have been to them. I see how, despite your foul mood, you treat others with respect and courtesy. I know that you are an intelligent person, sir, and well-liked._

Charles continued to stare at Erik with those agonized eyes, lips pressed tightly together as if to suppress a tremble. 

 _And you're the person who showed me that I'm not alone in this world,_ Erik reminded him, memory of their first discussion of their abilities flooding back to him. He wondered if Charles could read memories, too.  _That changed my life forever, you must know that. I do not dislike you, Charles. I have no desire to see you die._

The young master stared at Erik for a long moment, like he was trying to find a lie in his expression, his thoughts. Part of Erik recoiled when he felt that strange pressure in his head that alerted him to Charles' presence, but he let it go, figuring that the boy was searching for falsehoods in his surface thoughts. And when Charles finally pulled weakly away from his grip, Erik let go, watching as Charles rubbed at his face.

"Can you put me in bed?" the boy asked quietly from behind his hands. 

"Do you want pajamas first?"

"No. My back hurts. I need to lie down."

Erik took a deep breath and stood, finally allowing his powers to grasp on to Charles' wheelchair and pull it toward the bed. He had no idea if his words had any positive effect on the boy, but he was glad that he'd aired it, even for himself. It was a strange thing to be compelled to care for someone who had not returned the sentiment, and he didn't know  _exactly_ why he did, but putting words to it helped him think it through just a bit. Charles wasn't a bad person, he knew. Erik was in a foreign place, so far away from home, and he didn't know many people, so Charles, in all of his faults, was the smallest bit of comfort. Difficult, sure. But not a bad person, and at the end of the day, Erik felt that he could trust Charles. Trust his character.

Charles avoided Erik's eyes as he transferred him from his wheelchair to bed, the boy still wearing his red jumper, grey trousers, and black shoes. He could see the pain in Charles' face as he laid him down, but he was unable to discern where it originated. His aching back, emotional turmoil, or both. 

"May I remove your shoes, at least?" Erik asked after a few moments of congested silence, Charles lying in bed with his eyes closed and that pained expression still parked on his face. 

Charles nodded.

Erik sat on the end of the soft bed beside Charles' feet. 

"You and Raven," said Charles finally.

Erik glanced up, left shoe in hand. "What?"

"You and Raven," he repeated, opening his eyes to look at the high, paneled ceiling. "The only two who truly care if I'm dead."

Erik frowned. "You know that there are more than that. I doubt that anyone wants you dead, even if they dislike you."

A wry smile stretched across Charles' face. "There are two people in this very house who would give quite a lot to see me dead."

"Who?" 

Charles turned his attention from the ceiling to Erik now, who still sat at the end of the bed. Charles was propped up on a few pillows so that his upper back and head were at an incline, which made it easier to speak. "My stepfather and my stepbrother, of course."

Erik's frown deepened. "I doubt that they  _really_ want you dead, sir. They ma--"

"If they didn't  _really_ want me dead, Erik, why did Kurt try, and almost succeed, to kill me?"

Erik's mouth popped shut. Charles was looking at him with a stony, serious expression, as if daring Erik to challenge him. There was no trace of humor, drama, or mischief in his face. When the face-off became unbearable, Erik stole a glance at the now empty wheelchair, and then saw Charles nod out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes. He's the reason why I'm a cripple."

Suddenly, Erik felt sick. His stomach contracted violently, skin prickling and hair standing on end. His mind was flooded with visions of Kurt now, jet black hair, cold expression, thick-rimmed glasses that seemed to sap any trace of compassion from his dark eyes. How he grew so irritated when he saw Erik with Charles, entire posture growing tense as he spat orders at Erik. The same current that had flowed through his body when he'd been out in the garden with Cain began to pulse once again, and all of the metal in the room slowly started to hum.

"Don't," Charles warned firmly, pulling Erik from his spiral. Beside the bed, a metal pen sat four feet in the air; Erik had pulled it up without trying. 

"Sir, he--"

"Yes, he hurt me, but you can't turn my bedroom into a metal graveyard, Erik," said Charles, arms raised toward Erik. "Put it down, please."

It was a hundred times harder to let the metal go than it had been to grapple onto it, but Erik released his grip, a faint  _clink_ sounding about the room as each object settled back into place. "What did he do?" Erik managed to ask. "Why?"

Charles sighed, allowing his eyes to resettle back on the ceiling. He looked distraught, uncomfortable, but this time, Erik knew that it had little to do with pain in his back.

And then he began.

"My real father died when I was quite young. A few days after my eighth birthday," said the young master evenly, folding his hands over his stomach as he lay still in his bed. "He was a very successful man, you see. He was a scientist, and did well doing that, but he came from a long line of wealthy investors, businessmen, aristocrats. Old money, I suppose," Charles said, expression unreadable as he stared up. "He had no living family. No siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles. Just me, his only heir."

"Raven?" Erik asked quietly.

"She was....adopted into our family a year after he passed away," Charles said, shaking his head. "At the time of my father's death, there was no one else. Just his only son. So, in his will, he left every cent of his fortune to me."

Erik raised his eyebrows. This was news to him. Raven's adoption, Charles' father. No one had mentioned any of this before. Carol  _had_ told him that the Xavier family wealth rivaled that of certain small countries, though. "Every cent?"

"Every cent," Charles confirmed, unmoving. "When I turn 18, the trust will be given to me, and I will have total control over the estate, the investments, the properties...all of it."

Erik tried to imagine being so wealthy at his age, but he had no frame of reference. His parents had worked day and night to furnish their modest lifestyle, performing back-breaking labor and chores just to put food on the table. They would have done that until they were elderly, and then relied upon Erik and his sister to work hard to provide for them after that. Each coin was a coin well-earned, and any extra left at the end of the month went to school necessities, clothing or farm repairs, or, depending on the time of year, gifts for others. He couldn't even dream of having wealth like Charles. 

"That's....incredible, sir."

Charles nodded dryly. "Yes. I know. Of course, as an eight-year-old, I didn't understand what that meant. I just wanted my father back, as you might imagine. I missed him a lot, and I was very sad and confused, and yearned to have a father-figure in my life once more. So, when his old business partner, Kurt, moved into the manor to be with my mother, I was delighted. I thought that he would be another father. I was ten at this point, and he'd always been lovely to me while my father was alive. He'd buy me toys, show me their experiments. I was delighted," said the young master, and then his lips pursed. 

"Except, it wasn't the same, when he and Cain moved in. Suddenly, as my stepfather, he was cross. Cold. He'd berate me for the slightest error in etiquette, force me to go without dinner, beat me with a switch. And Cain was a bully, too. Found a lot of joy in making me bruise. I'd begun to yearn for the school term to last longer and the holidays to be shorter, because I hated being home so much. He and Cain were like a team whose goal was to make my life hell. One Christmas, after Kurt switched me so hard I bled through my jumper, Raven finally pointed out that he was probably upset because he'd been under the impression that marrying my mother would give him access to my father's fortune. It was a shock to him that it all belonged to me when I turned 18."

Erik's stomach twisted again. It was evident where this story was going. "Sir..."

Charles exhaled a long, deep sigh, his eyes shutting once more. "Last June, just after coming home for the summer holidays, a maid told me that I was needed in a parlor on the fourth floor. I thought it was strange, because we never use that wing, but I didn't want to get her in trouble. So, I went," said the young master slowly, eyes remaining closed. "Kurt was waiting there for me, on the balcony. I went to him, prepared to ask why he'd summoned me there. I didn't even have time to open my mouth before he grabbed me and pushed me over the edge."

Erik shut his eyes as well, the sickness he had been feeling coming to a head. His head swam, awash with a volatile mix of sympathy, pain, and anger. Charles didn't deserve that. Not an ounce of it. None of the abuse, of the misplaced hatred. He'd just been a boy looking for a father. Instead, he found a killer.

"I see," was all Erik could say as he opened his eyes, voice quietly brimming with that caustic concoction. 

Charles, too, opened his eyes, and bored right into Erik's own. Now, there was an understanding there. Unspoken trust. "I woke up in hospital a month later. I couldn't feel anything beneath my navel. Apparently, the groundskeeper found me an hour later, nearly drained of blood and twisted at some ungodly angle. I was not meant to survive, but...here I am," he said with the smallest shrug. "Unable to walk, in near constant pain, an absolute drain on everyone around me, but...every day I'm alive, I know I'm foiling Kurt's plans. My existence causes him anger."

Erik pursed his lips and found himself scooting up the bed, closer to Charles. His body still felt sick and heavy, but somehow magnetized to the young master. "Then, all the more reason to live, right? To watch him lose," he said quietly. 

Charles nodded vaguely, and then let out another deep breath. "Yes. I suppose you're right."

The room was silent and heavy for several minutes, Erik's head whizzing with all he'd learned. He felt like he needed to say something, but no words came. There weren't enough words in any of the languages that Erik spoke to express how much sorrow he felt for Charles, and how much anger he felt toward Kurt. Hell, he didn't know if he would be able to stand looking at Kurt in the face now without raining metal down on him. 

"Cain won't tell anyone about earlier," Charles said finally, breaking their heavy silence. "He's terrified of you, but he wouldn't ever tell anyone that he'd been threatened by a floating mallet. He's stupid, but not that stupid."

The German nodded. "Good."

Charles nodded as well, eyes downcast. "Tomorrow, if the weather is fine again...I could take tea in the garden?"

Despite everything, Erik felt the smallest uplift, the stirrings of a shift amidst a bleak and grating detente. "If you would like, sir."

The young master shut his eyes again, body now relaxing against the soft support of the bed, tension melting away at long last. "I would."


	5. Objector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war intensifies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the long delay! I had a major schedule change, and my writing availability time decreased greatly.
> 
> I'm glad I finally got this chapter out - it's a little short and transitional. But, finishing this means that I get to write the far more intense and exciting ones that I have planned out.
> 
> Again, so sorry for the delay.

_**October, 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England.** _

 

The transition from summer to autumn was abrupt. Those balmy summer afternoons of late September were quickly ushered out by October's arrival, replaced with brisk mornings, blustery afternoons, and nights that were beginning to bite icily at the skin. A reminder that a long and dark winter was just around the corner, lurking behind autumn's foggy dew.

With October came more daily reports of the carnage. Splashed across the front page of every newspaper were tales of death, destruction, and despair as it spread like plague through all of Britain. Not one day had been a day without an attack since they first started over a month ago, and the ever-growing knot in Erik's stomach twisted tighter and tighter when his turn to read the paper came. Manchester. Liverpool. Brighton. It seemed that the Germans were growing tired of decimating only London and had begun to branch out and target Britain's other major cities. 

With every glimpse of that jarring symbol emblazoned on the wings of the planes, Erik was reminded of being marched from his home and onto a bus, holding the front handle of a heavy trunk while his father brought up the rear. That was the first time Erik had seen that symbol in person, the swastika. The men all wore it on the arms of their tailored green uniforms, and Erik remembered thinking that it looked nearly like a spider. By that time, they'd already been forced to pin those yellow stars to their clothes whenever they went about in public, but Erik hadn't minded that all too much. Silly and pointless, he'd thought, because everyone in his village had to wear one and it didn't do much good in differentiating them, but he'd done it. They all had.

Each member of staff was now worried about their own families, too. All had at least one loved one in a targeted city, so whenever telegrams arrived at the servants' door, an anxious current rippled through the air, a fear that the telegram bore news of a death.

Only once had it actually happened, to a young porter named Warren. He was around Erik's age and from Birmingham but had come to work here just a year ago. It was a cold morning, and Charles had woken up with a stiff back, so Erik hadn't made it downstairs until after Warren had left. Apparently, the boy's two brothers had been working in a factory when 400 tons of explosives were dropped from above, killing both of them and dozens of others. 

And, although Erik was just as displaced by Germany as the rest of them, he could not help but feel shame and anger burning within. There was no pride in being from Germany right now, leaving Erik feeing homeless. Identity-less.

 

"You're awfully quiet today."

Erik looked up to find the young master eyeing him inquisitively from over his book. Despite the windy afternoon, Charles had requested to take tea in the courtyard, which he often did these days. The cold required him to wear a thick coat and a woolen scarf, but Erik was overall pleased that Charles still seemed interested in getting his daily fresh air quotas. There wasn't much sun left to enliven his pale skin, but after several weeks of regular time outside, Erik could notice a few differences in the young master. The circles under his eyes weren't so dark while his cheeks and the tip of his nose reddened in the cold; a sign of vitality. Little by little, Charles was looking less mummified and more alive, which was a major win, in Erik's opinion. 

All-around, things between the two of them had been...pleasant. Well, more pleasant than they had been, at least. It seemed to Erik that Charles now trusted him as a friend, of sorts. A confidant, someone who was on his side. Especially over these past two weeks, the two of them had accidentally stayed up late into the night, talking about the war, books they'd read, things they'd seen. Charles, unsurprisingly, was very well-read, and had a lot of interesting things to say about some of their mutual favorites.

In fact, Charles had a lot of interesting things to say in general. Although he'd lived a comparatively sheltered life, the young master was strikingly intelligent, Erik had come to find. Amazingly so. He seemed to remember even the smallest details of every experience he'd ever had, as well as his precise feelings and thoughts from each moment. There were times when Charles would recall an event in his life, and then laugh or frown about something he'd been thinking at the time. It was like every moment of the young master's life was perfectly indexed in his own head, organized and detailed. It was fascinating. Erik had never met somebody quite like him.

But, that observant nature often got Erik into trouble, as it did now. They'd been out in the courtyard for nearly half an hour, and Erik hadn't spoken much at all from his seat at the delicate table across from Charles. He'd brought his own book to read, but he'd turned no pages, unable to concentrate. A detail that Charles had certainly picked up on, which was why the young master was frowning at him now.

"So I am," Erik replied, fingering the smooth pages of his book before glancing down at the type. "We're reading. Isn't it rude to be anything other than quiet while one is reading?"

"Cheeky," Charles observed, marking his place in his own book with a slip of parchment before shutting it entirely. "Your mind is also quiet today. Very low, very guarded."

"I thought you said you didn't listen in on me."

"I don't. I don't have to to know what kind of mood you're in."

Erik rolled his eyes. Impressive as Charles' abilities were, they could be frustrating. Very frustrating. "Am I no longer allowed to be quiet, Master Charles?" he asked irritably, shutting a creaking gate in the distance with a harsh wave of his hand. 

Both Erik and Charles watched the gate slam shut, the posts and structure wavering at the impact. 

"You're allowed to be upset," Charles said after a moment, turning his blue eyes back to Erik. "I'd just like to know why, if you're keen on letting me know."

Erik clenched his jaw. He watched as Charles' long, wavy hair grew caught in the breeze, carefree and wild. His own hair fluttered too much for his own liking--time for cut, soon. His mother had always cut his hair for him, he noted with a pang. He didn't know who to ask, now. 

"Do you not dislike me because I'm German?" Erik asked finally.

Charles looked taken aback, blinking once. "Of course I don't dislike you because you're German. Are you mad?"

Erik shook his head, frowning back down at his book. "Not mad. Many people here find me to be offensive, I think. Or find it offensive that they're made to work alongside someone from the country who is threatening to kill them and their families."

"Who thinks that? I can tell Mr. Colson tha––"

"Tell Mr. Colson  _what_ , Charles? That his staff should stop being angry that their family and friends are being slaughtered at the hands of my countrymen?"

"They still shouldn't take it out on you," Charles replied swiftly, and if Erik wasn't so heated, he would have noticed that Charles was acting defensively on his behalf. "You're not hurting anyone. You're displaced by this as much as anyone, are you not?"

Erik didn't have a response for that. His body grew suddenly charged, electrified. Like the current of that invisible but tactical metallic field was running through his blood. Clasping onto the iron, driving it faster, hotter. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, pacing in short strides around the young master and the table. Behind him, the iron chair he'd just abandoned scraped along the ground, following Erik as if he was a human magnet.

"Erik...please, calm––" he heard Charles' voice say, Erik cut him off.

"Calm down? You want me to calm down?" the young German hissed, much of his pent up anguish bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. "Why? Because you're the master and I'm the slave? And it doesn't please you to see your slave act out?"

"No," Charles said cooly, his expression darkening just a touch. "Because the chair you're abusing is pulling up the grass and the groundskeepers will have your head if you keep doing so."

Erik stopped his pacing and, after taking a moment to feel how he was gripping the chair, released it. He watched as it fell in a listless huff, and felt as his intensity began to drown itself, too.

A weighty silence hung between them. Erik continued to glare at the chair, feeling the oceanic eyes of the young master surveying him as he stood. 

"I apologize if I misspoke," said Charles finally. It came unexpectedly, causing Erik's gaze to avert. The young master didn't usually admit fault, and Erik didn't really know how to take it. As he took in Charles' expression, however, Erik could see that it was sincere and thoughtful. 

"Do you really?" he asked, voice gruff. 

Charles nodded and pursed his lips, as if he were trying to find words. "Yes, I really do," he said, bony fingers toying with the hem of the thick blanket in which he was cocooned. "I spoke glibly about your situation. I did not mean to, nor do I think about it lightly, Erik. I cannot imagine being taken from my home as you were."

Erik's glare deepened. Aside Charles asking if he was a refugee during their first meeting, he hadn't spoken a word about what had happened to he and his family to anyone. Charles knew a little bit about his mother through comments here and there, but nothing of his old life, or how it had so callously ended. "You don't know anything," Erik said finally, raising his chin in challenge.

A rosy flush darkened the young master's pale cheeks then, and Erik had a keen suspicious that it had nothing to do with the cold. Usually, the boy's facade was stony enough to keep a firm guard, never a crack in his armor. Even when he was in a good mood, he was smart and witty enough to stay a step ahead of Erik, and that bred confidence. Charles Xavier was not someone who liked to appear vulnerable, unless it was his choice. It was odd to see him so...thrown. "I do know," said the boy finally, eyes cast downward at his covered knees. "You dream about that day a lot."

Erik opened his mouth, but closed it shortly after. Of course. Of course Charles knew more than Erik had intended for him to know. He could hear thoughts. Erik wasn't even safe in his own head, was he? In his sleep? 

Unable to formulate a response again, Erik sunk down into the chair once more. He rubbed his palm against his forehead, feeling very heavy. "You listen in on my dreams," he said flatly, eyes on the ground.

"I don't mean to intrude on your privacy," Charles said quickly. "One night, you projected so vividly that it woke me from sleep. You were yelling in your head, so to me, you could have been yelling directly in my ear."

Erik couldn't plead ignorance, here. Every night, after collapsing into his narrow bed in an exhausted heap, the dreams came to haunt him. They were vivid. Too vivid. So vivid that the dream iterations were beginning to warp Erik's memory of the actual event. His dreams were similar, but always had unwanted additions to give the scenario a more terrifying edge. Sometimes, the sky would be on fire, or the men in those tailored suits would be holding scythes. Sometimes, they'd have the Devil's face instead of their own face. Sometimes, his mother did. They recurred each night, and whenever Erik woke up drenched in sweat, he'd feel a little sicker and less capable of pretending that one day, all would be okay again. 

"It's just a dream," he said, eyes narrowing as they remained focused on the ground. "You shouldn't take the dreams you overhear as gospel, sir."

"I don't," said Charles, hands still fiddling with the blanket. "But their recurrence is enough to indicate some semblance of truth."

Erik sighed then. He supposed he didn't have much choice, here. If he was "projecting," as the young master said, he couldn't snap at him to stay out of his head. It wasn't Charles' fault, necessarily, that he knew what he knew. "You're certain that you don't listen in purposefully?" he asked after a moment.

"I'm certain," Charles replied and raised one hand, as if swearing on some invisible icon. "As interesting as you may be, Erik, I have no desire to muck around in your head in my spare time. The minds of other people are often harsh places."

A small extension of comfort, Erik supposed. Still, he didn't know he was doing these projections. How could one think more quietly? It was something he had to practice, learn. If Charles could do this, there was no telling how many others could, too. And those others might not be as benevolent. 

Sighing, Erik leaned back in the chair. The heaviness in his body fell to his fingertips and toes, like Charles dragged it from him entirely. "It's not exactly how it happened, sir," he said, voice even.

"Alright. You don't need to talk about it if you would prefer not to. I merely wanted to make it known that I do not, in fact, hate you because you're German," said Charles.

Erik nodded. "Alright. Thank you, I suppose."

A weighted silence sat for a touch, and then Charles spoke up. "Do you hate me because I'm English?"

Erik shook his head no, and even managed a smirk. "No. In fact, I even tolerate you,  _despite_  you being English."

A laugh pealed from Charles then, the first genuine one he'd heard from the young master. It rang like a bell. "I'll take it."

 

* * *

 

 

Pretty soon, the wind began to howl, and both Erik and Charles agreed that it was high time to head inside. Despite his own feelings of helplessness and the weight of the despair on his shoulders, Erik felt marginally better after his conversation with the young master. Nothing had been resolved, and Erik was still beginning to feel like nothing ever would be, but there had been an unmistakable tenderness from Charles that had him feeling a little bit less alone. 

Buried underneath that stony, troubled exterior, Erik could see someone who was compassionate. There was a glimpse of the boy that Carol and Maria had talked about when Erik had first asked. The one who would go out of his way to see that the staff were taken care of. Unlike the rest of his family, Charles seemed to care for other people, and that brought Erik comfort. 

The time outside, however, had left Charles with an unshakeable chill, and even after an hour of trying to warm him up in front of the fire in the young master's bedroom, Erik could see that the boy's skin remain raised with gooseflesh and a shudder run through his body. Not even the addition of a third blanket did the trick, which was beginning to trouble Erik. 

"It's because you're all skin and bones," Erik murmured, wrapping the outer blanket tighter around the young master's narrow frame. "Nothing to keep the cold out."

"Shall I sit here and eat pudding all night and day to fatten up?" the young master replied irritably, although the edge in his voice sounded like it stemmed from discomfort more than anything. 

"I would be delighted if you did," Erik said with a huff, rising when he was unable to tourniquet the blanket any tighter around Charles. The slight shiver still wracking the young master's form indicated that it still wasn't enough. "I'd far prefer you be bursting at your seams than swallowed by your own skin."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm not. You can't continue like this or else..." Erik trailed off as he began to pace about the room. He didn't know what may happen if Charles did, in fact, continue on like this. He wasn't a doctor and had little to no knowledge of medical maladies. Charles did, however, which was the ironic thing. He'd come to learn that the boy was very learned in biological studies and things of that nature. He often spoke of scientists, both long dead and contemporary, and how their various discoveries changed the course of history over and over again. With all that knowledge, Erik thought he would be more interested in taking care of his own body, but it was still a fight to get him to do so much as eat a few crackers between breakfast and supper.

"Or else what?" Charles challenged, obviously eager to pounce on Erik's shortcoming. 

"Or else you'll wither dust and float to China," Erik snapped shortly, pausing by the glass-paned bureau which held the collection of Charles' trophies. He remembered the photograph he'd seen of Charles in his swimming costume, proudly displaying all of his accomplishments on his chest. He remembered biceps, pectoral muscles, shoulders. Vitality and strength that would have pushed away the cold without so much as a prickle. 

"I've always wanted to go to China," Charles said as Erik watched his teeth chatter ever so slightly. "I've heard it's magnificent."

Grumbling, Erik pushed his hands through his hair and resumed his pacing. Rest, nutrition, and warmth. The three vital things he needed to ensure that the young master got each day. Right now, he was failing entirely, and he could only imagine Mr. Colson's reprimand. Perhaps he was allowing himself to grow  _too_ friendly, which clouded his judgment.

"I'll draw you a bath," Erik decided after a moment, but stopped when Charles shook his head.

"I'll never make it to dinner in time if you do," said the young master. "A hot cup of tea might help."

It would be better than nothing, anyway. After readjusting the blanket one more time, Erik hurried from Charles' bedroom. He had plans to ask the chef to put extra helpings on Charles' plate from now on, or cook with more butter and fat. Or something, anything to get Charles to but a little bit of bulk back on his body. It wasn't always easy to get the fullest of meals now that supplies were being rationed, but from what Erik could tell, the Xavier household had more than enough to suffice.

"I don't see why you can't stop it!"

Erik stopped in his tracks. He was about ten feet down the landing to the back stairwell, which ran along the rear side of the house rather than spiraling down through the center like the main stairwell. When alone, Erik preferred to travel alternate routes in the house to avoid others, as he wasn't keen on small talk or niceties. Today, however, he wasn't alone. The door small room used for storage at the top of the stairwell was swung open, and from within Erik could hear the low drawl of Cain. He couldn't see him, as he was still several feet from the entrance of the door, but Erik could hear the anger in his voice beginning to grow.

Figuring that Cain was either talking to himself or to a mate of his that he had over, Erik spun around to make a quick escape, not keen on being hailed down by the boy. A second voice, however, gave Erik cause to freeze once more.

"I can't stop a war," said the cold, calculated voice of Kurt Marko, Cain's father. "And if I could, do you not think that I would be using that power for other things?"

Unable to peel himself away from his curiosity, Erik tip-toed toward the wall, pressing himself behind a swath of heavy curtains. He could still hear the two men as they argued, but if one were to storm out, Erik would be hidden well enough to avoid immediate detection. It's not as if either of the two would be struck with a desire to shut the curtains, after all.

"I know you can't stop a war, but you can stop this!" The sound of crackling parchment, as if Cain was brandishing one in the air. "Talk to Lord Fraser. He's a magistrate, he can get me out of it!"

"Lord Fraser can do nothing of that sort, Cain," Kurt said, the parchment crumbling. "You're not going to be shipped off to the front lines tomorrow, they're just having you register. Calm yourself."

"They can't  _make_ me do anything I want, this is a free country," Cain's voice spat back. "If they try, I'll go to Parliament and argue that this--"

"You will do  _no such thing_ ," Kurt hissed, and there was a venom in his voice that made the hair on the back of Erik's neck stand on end. "You will register for this draft and you will do so proudly. If you even think of trying to be a––what do they call them?" A rustle of parchment. " _Conscientious objector_ , I will have you sent to Belgium straight away to be used as German target practice. Do you understand me?"

There was a heavy silence then, and Erik so badly wished he could see the look on Cain's face after being berated like a child. 

"I don't know why it's so important," Cain said after a moment, quiet but still petulant. 

"It's important that you're seen as someone who will fight for this nation. If you cower away from what is expected of you, how will people think of you? You'll look no less useless than your step brother."

Erik grit his teeth.

"That's a load of bollocks," Cain replied haughtily. "I'm nothing like him."

"No, you're not. You're not a cripple. Therefore, I will not allow you to shirk your responsibilities and act like one."

"Father, I––"

There was a small crash from within the room, then. Like boxes or a table falling to the floor. Then, Erik felt the wall shake, just a touch, as if an overlarge boy was being slammed into it by his father. "I am not asking you, Cain." Kurt was quieter now, but the bite in his tone had grown even more poisonous. "You  _will_ register. And if you don't, I will personally give you a very clear excuse that would deem you physically unable to enlist. Just like your bastard brother."

More silence from the room, although the metal around him was buzzing so much that it took every muscle in Erik's body to keep from bursting. 

"Yes, Father," Cain said at last, defeated. 

"Good. Now, you will bring up this topic at supper with the Frosts on Sunday. You will speak about how you are so proud to register and cannot bear the thought that there are perfectly capable men who will not."

"Yes, Father."

"And if I hear you speak about objecting one more time, I will not hesitate to make you regret it."

"...Yes, Father."

"Good. Wash up for supper. You smell like you've been sleeping in the stables."

Erik stilled any sway in his body as the door burst open slowly and the quick, angry footsteps of Kurt passed him and disappeared down the hallway. A full minute later, Cain's own heavier, clumsier footsteps emerged as well, trudging miserably until they, too, could no longer be heard. Only then did Erik exhale his breath, the metal in the hallway settling with him.

The draft. Erik had forgotten about the draft. It had been all over the papers, stories of those "conscientious objectors" cooking up all sorts of reasons why they couldn't register themselves. A few members of staff had been conscripted since Erik had started working here, but Erik realized that he'd never considered Cain having to join. He'd figured that this crust of society was immune to these sorts of things, that only the poor and working-class citizens had to volunteer. Cain had only turned eighteen two weeks ago, however, and already had his letter. They must be desperate for men. 

Maybe they'd get lucky and he'd be chosen. 

With a small start, Erik realized that he was relieved that Charles wouldn't have to go. There would likely be no role at all for Charles in this war, other than remote supporter. He'd been reading all about the countrywide efforts to supply and support the armed forces, so perhaps if Charles wanted to help, he could find some way of doing so, but there would be no suiting up for him. 

Erik, on the other hand, had more options.


	6. Responsibilites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift, and a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....hi! Long time, no update! I actually wrote and rewrote this chapter a hundred times, as I changed the pacing of the story while I was writing. After awhile, you just kinda have to stop spinning your wheels and just do it.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, I have high aims of being better. Thank you all for sticking around!

**_November, 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England._ **

On the morning of November 3rd, Charles was already awake when Erik entered his bedroom. In his pajamas, the young master was sat upright in bed, hair a bedraggled mess, with a smile on his face.

"Happy birthday, Erik!" 

Erik paused in the doorway. His eyes immediately fell to the small parcel on the boy's lap, wrapped in colorful parchment. A birthday gift, he realized. For him. 

The German blinked, words failing him. He'd not told anyone about his birthday, although he'd been thinking about it for a few weeks, now. Ever since overhearing Cain and Kurt discussing military service, Erik hadn't been able to shake the idea of finding a way to enlist. Back home, citizens had to be 18 to enlist, so he assumed it was similar here. Which meant that once Erik turned 17, the lie he would tell about his age would be lighter. So, his 17th birthday was the deadline Erik gave himself to start growing serious about finding a way to enlist, as a German national, in the British Armed Forces. 

Apparently, in all of his scheming, Charles had been able to pluck November 3rd out of his head. Whether he'd been able to associate with Erik's plans was still a mystery, but he certainly guessed its significance correctly.

"Sir..." Erik said after a moment, inching his way into the bedroom. He let the heavy door shut behind him and turned on the proper light, illuminating the room in a powerful glow. Now, Erik could see that the parcel was roughly the size of an encyclopedia, but more square. 

"Before you refuse to accept this gift and tell me that I didn't have to do anything, I'll tell you that I know," said Charles, waving Erik over. "So, if you'll just put aside your natural inclination to protest for just a moment, I would be most grateful."

Erik's mouth popped shut as he sank wordlessly onto the stool beside the young master's bed. There had been no reason for him to expect anyone to pay him any mind, today. Even back home, birthdays were a modest affair. His mother might make a nice dessert, and if they had any extra money, there might be a new book or a pair of gloves waiting for him at his spot at the table. 

There would never be a parcel wrapped in such delicate paper as the one on Charles' legs. 

"I....I don't know what to say," said Erik honestly, cheeks beginning to feel warm. _Verdammt,_ he thought to himself, hating sheepish he was growing. It had been easier when the young master showed him little more than disdain, hadn't it? None of this affection to worry about, this care he didn't know how to reciprocate. 

"Don't say anything, then," said Charles, bright-eyed as he lifted the parcel. "Open it."

Erik leaned forward and took the item with gentle hands, like he was holding a bird's nest. It wasn't large, but it was heavier than Erik had expected it to be, with a hard exterior. Within, Erik could feel small pieces of metal slotted between other materials, which did not help Erik reckon a guess as to what it was. It was almost a shame that he had to tear the wrappings away, a delicate parchment in a deep red with a pattern of royal blue flowers. It was like something out of a glossy magazine that Erik used to browse through at the newsstands. He'd never in a hundred years thought that someone would present him with a gift like this.

"Open it," Charles insisted again, clearly growing impatient from where he sat up in bed. 

Obeying, Erik slid his finger under the tape adhesive and carefully pulled the parchment away from the item until all sides were uncovered. Now on his knees sat a wooden box with metal hinges on each side. The top of the box was divided into two separate doors, and upon opening each, Erik realized exactly what the young master had given him.

"Sir," Erik repeated, eyebrows raising as he observed the portable chess set in his lap. The floor of the box was painted with black and white squares and in each of the doors, small chessmen were bound with leather straps. His fingers traced over the marble figurines as they sat in their places, eager to be unbound. It was such a handsome set, hand-painted, probably hand-carved, and must have cost a small fortune. "Sir, this is too much."

It really was. This miniature chess set was now probably the most expensive thing that Erik owned, and it was an item meant for leisure and merriment. Which was absolutely absurd. 

"I've seen you read books about chess from the library," Charles replied, not defensive in the slightest. Rather, he looked earnest, a soft smile on his red lips. "So, I had one made and sent Armando to collect it in town. I thought that you and I might be able to play, sometime."

Erik used to play chess with some of the neighborhood kids during the rare free hour. A family down the street had an old set—nowhere near as beautiful as the one he'd just been given—and Erik had taken to it well. Most of his opponents lacked the patience that the game required and new nothing of the possibilities that proper strategy could unearth, so Erik had been a formidable opponent. So formidable that few ever wanted to challenge him, in the end. 

"Do you know how to play?" Erik asked, still unable to find a proper reaction as he gently wriggled a black knight from its leather binding to observe more closely. 

A small chuckle. "I do. No one around here enjoys it, however. So, I was hoping that you might."

"I do enjoy it," Erik replied, eyes focused on the ornately carved patterns within the wood. "I can't accept this. This isn't...this is far too much."

From the corner of his eye, Erik could see Charles shift a little in bed, propping himself up on his hands so that he could sit a bit higher. "It's your birthday," said Charles in a more muted tone. "You deserve something nice on your birthday."

"Why?" Erik insisted, finally looking up to meet the young master's eyes with genuine curiosity. "There's no reason for you to think that I deserve anything special. Not anymore than anyone else." Alongside the gratitude that was pouring through Erik right now was guilt. Guilt that the boy had spent so much money on him, money that could have been saved or spent elsewhere. On Raven, on himself, on anything else that truly warranted it. Not on him. 

But Charles just shook his head. "You deserve it, Erik," he repeated firmly. "Of all the people in this house, this town, maybe even the whole putrid world, you're the only one who doesn't act as if I'm a pane of glass. You tell me when I'm being a pain in your arse, you expect things of me. As bloody cross as that can make me, it also makes me feel as if you....oh, I don't know. Respect me."

"I do respect you, Sir. Of course."

"Not in that way," Charles said, face welling in distaste for a moment before it smoothed back out. "Even the people who are kind to me no longer respect me as a capable being. To them, I'm a condition. A cripple who needs tending to rather than a person with a mind of my own. You're not like that. You're the only one who isn't."

"Raven?"

"She tries," Charles sighed, leaning back against his pillows once more with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe one day, she will. Right now I believe she's too worried about me being hurt or unwell that it's hard for her to focus on much else."

The most difficult component of being in Charles' position, Erik realized, might have nothing to do with his physical limitations at all. Being surrounded by people who saw him not only as incapable, but something to be pitied, too. A living doll, shut away without the respect of being challenged in the remotest of ways. That, Erik knew, would be worse than any physical crippling.

"I won't ever treat you like that," Erik promised, and he could feel that conviction root him firmly. He hoped Charles could, too.

The boy smiled once more. "Which is why I wanted to give you something nice on your birthday. So, accept it."

Erik nodded, and although he still didn't think that treating someone nicely warranted expensive gifts, shut the chess set closed and held it against his chest. "Thank you, Charles. I truly appreciate it. This is the nicest gift that anyone has ever given to me."

"You're welcome. Now, get me out of bed so that we can pretend to not be miserable downstairs. I promise I won't tell anyone else that it's your birthday."

Erik smiled, stood, and did just that.

 

The chess set was enough to occupy Erik for the remainder of the day. In fact, it was enough to distract him for the better part of two weeks. Whenever Erik took Charles anywhere, the chess set came with. Tucked under Erik's arm, resting carefully in the young master's lap, levitated by its metal hinges. It was always with them. Rather than reading in companionable silence during the long hours between Charles' scheduled activities, the two found themselves engaged in match after match of chess.

Charles had won the first three times they played, surprising Erik with his tact. Admittedly, Erik had underestimated the boy and had adopted a far too aggressive strategy in assumption that Charles would take bait where he saw it. After learning more about Charles' style, however, Erik began to take games of his own. Charles played very strategically. There were no throwaway moves in his game––every action served a singular purpose in his larger plan. That was something he'd grown to admire and appreciate, especially since he played very differently. In his game, his primary goal was to set as many traps as he could worming his way through Charles' defenses until he snared his king in an impossible bind. 

It was safe to say, then, that they were well-matched. Both understood the game implicitly on a level that their previous opponents did not, and both were quick to observe and learn the other's style of play in order to adapt their own. 

For the first time perhaps ever, Erik felt well and truly distracted. 

Back home on the farm, the work was hard and long but it was often equally tedious, giving Erik's mind ample time to wander. It would wander to the future, to the past. Think about how he often felt stuck, how he wished that, just maybe, he'd have an opportunity to do something else with his life. A cruel irony that was, because now, all Erik wanted was to go back home to his humble farm and family, but retrospect was not something he'd have ever considered. And since coming to the Xavier manor, Erik's mind did nothing but wander and worry, stew and scheme. 

It was maddening, sometimes, to live in one's own head, all alone with nothing but his thoughts. 

But when playing chess with the young master, there was no space for anything extraneous. They might play for hours upon hours and while they did, his brain thought of nothing but the game. It studied Charles' moves with the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes and plotted his own with the adroitness of Napoleon Bonaparte. Time passed without pace, too. There had been several times already that Erik glanced at the clock between games and found it far later than he ever could have expected. Charles had even missed dinner once due to their absorption, something that had earned him a good few stern words from Mr. Colson.

"Egregiously unacceptable, Mr. Lehnsherr," Mr. Colson had lectured that evening, his already austere nature turning positively stony. "Had you ever given me even an ounce of reason to doubt your capability prior to this, I assure you that you would be packing your things right now."

Erik had hung his head then, fixing his hands behind his back. While he privately felt that the strict regimens that they were all made to follow were unnecessarily rigid, it had never been his intention to deviate. Not now, when he truly had nowhere else to go. "It won't happen again, Mr. Colson," Erik had promised.

"I think not," the man had agreed tersely, and then pursed his lips. "While your fraternity with Young Master Xavier is...beneficial, I will not allow it to steer you from your responsibilities."

Mr. Colson was an observant man, but one didn't have to be to detect the changes that had been stirring. Other members of the household might hear Erik and Charles chatting as they traversed the manor, or spot them locked in one of their games at various points throughout the day. Hell, if someone were to burst in to Charles' bedroom at eleven o'clock at night, they would almost certainly find the two awake, Charles in bed and Erik seated beside it, deep in discussion about philosophy, history, literature, or whatever topic bubbled to the surface that evening. Since the addition of chess into their daily lives, that had been a major item of discussion, too.

When Erik could peel enough of Charles' brattiness away, he found someone quite unlike anyone he'd met before. The young master's intelligence was both a challenge and a treat, and oftentimes Erik found himself hooked onto Charles' words, spellbound by his unique way of observing the world and his astute manner of speaking. Other times, they would feed off of each other's ideas as they discussed something, delving into their topic together to discover something new. There was a companionship there that Erik couldn't quite place, but it was something that was novel to him. Equal parts frustrating and exciting.

Frustrating because on principle, Erik shouldn't like the young master. He was a wealthy, spoiled English brat who quite literally ate off of silver spoons. He was often petulant, stubborn for no proper reason, and was prone to bouts of difficulty. 

And yet, Erik could not keep himself from being excited when he entered Charles' room each morning to start the day. Their conversations and rounds of chess offered a mental stimulation that was downright addicting. Moreover, Charles loved to watch Erik practice using his metallic abilities and Erik loved to indulge him. It was a release to be able to take hold of the alloys around him and do as he pleased. Sometimes, he merely levitated them to feel their weight and other times he manipulated their forms, molding pitchers into plates, spoons into saucers, boxes into basins. Charles could offer him a sort of coaching somehow, too. He knew how to help Erik gain more control over his abilities and would often offer advice about how better to channel his control. That was exhilarating, and served as a welcome occupation for his thoughts.

Without humility, Erik knew that his presence was having positive effects on the young master, too. Not only was the boy still requesting regular sojourns outside, he was also in all around better spirits than he had been when Erik had first arrived. Not all the time, but there were typically more good days than bad, now. He would hum as he finished his schoolwork, start conversations with the staff, laugh, on occasion. He'd even taken to eating a bit more to everyone's relief. Not tremendously more, but he would have a few bites of his sandwich at tea and nearly finish one helping at meals. The differences in his body were not immediate, but Erik would swear that his bones felt less severe when he picked the boy up. Regardless, it was good to see change. 

 

There was a change in the air indeed on that cold Saturday morning in mid-November when Erik found himself back in Charles' bedroom to ready him for the day. Down in the kitchen, the staff was even more hurried than usual because apparently, Madame Xavier decided the night before to host a dinner party this evening for some family called the MacTaggerts. 

Upon mentioning it to Charles as he handed him his shirt, however, he earned a darkened expression from the young master, a palpable shift. "The MacTaggerts are coming tonight?" he asked, shirt wrinkling between his fingers.

"Apparently," Erik replied as he leaned against Charles' wardrobe. "Is this cause for alarm?"

Charles frowned down at his lap. "Not alarm," he said after a moment before busying himself with his shirt. "Discontent, perhaps."

"Discontent? Why?"

Charles sighed as he began to thread the metal buttons of his shirt through the eyes. Whenever he did this, Erik had to resist an urge to do it himself with his abilities, something that Charles didn't appreciate. These days, the boy was insisting upon doing things on his own when he could. "General MacTaggert is an old friend of my father's. My mother has always been concerned with impressing him. He's a high-ranking officer in the Army. I'm sure he's got loads to talk about."

Erik's interest piqued, just a touch. Most of the guests that the Xaviers entertained were as terrible as they were. Old aristocrats from dying lines who liked to pretend that their noble blood still set them apart. Or stuffy magistrates and government officials whose speciality seemed to be blaming everyone and everything for all that was happening in the world. A military officer, though? Perhaps he could find a way to ask him about enlistment.

"Are they horrible?" Erik asked as his mind began to turn.

"Actually, no. General MacTaggert is a kind man," Charles said carefully, his tone muted. Erik couldn't gauge his expression as he stared down at his knees, blue eyes focused on something that only he knew. "And their daughter, Moira. She's a smart girl. Ah...well, our parents always encouraged us to be....together," the young master said finally with a frown.

Erik raised his brows, momentarily distracted. This was entirely new to him––the two had never really spoken about things of this nature before. It had never come up. "Is that something you want?" Erik asked, busying himself kneeling down at Charles' feet to start slipping on his shoes and socks. 

He didn't look up to see the young master's face, but Erik heard the discomfort in his voice when he spoke. "She's a smart girl," Charles repeated. "Very pretty and good-natured. Sharp as a whip, comes from a good family."

"Positive attributes, Sir. Certainly," Erik said quietly, slipping a wool sock over Charles' stubborn foot. "But that's not an answer to my question."

"I know," Charles said, and the pained tone finally drew Erik to glance up again. The young master was still frowning at his knees, and from Erik's vantage point, he could see that his forehead wrinkled and his lips were pressed into a thin line, as if he was struggling to conceal something. "I _should_ want that."

"But you don't."

"No."

And for some reason, a sense of relief followed that statement, which caught Erik completely by surprise. There was no reason for it. Erik knew that he shouldn't mind whatsoever if Charles had a love interest or not. And he didn't––not really. Erik wasn't completely unaware of himself or his psychology, he knew that he'd began to grow attached to the young master. Like a conquest, almost. Charles had been so cross and trying when he’d first arrived here, so it was a point of pride that he’d been able to pry him open, just a bit. 

“Any particular reason why, sir?” Erik asked then, lacing the boy’s shoe before gently setting it on the footplate of his chair. 

“Need I a particular reason to be uninterested in someone romantically?” Charles snapped back.

Erik considered this as he laced up the remaining shoe before standing back up. “I suppose not. And I suppose it’s not my place to ask.” Erik could see rather than hear Charles sigh a full-bodied heave as he handed him his blankets to wrap around his thin frame. “Fancy a game of chess after breakfast?”

“I expect you’ll be busy with dinner preparations. Unlikely that I’ll be able to steal you the entire day,” said the young master as he swaddled his legs in the thick fabric. 

Erik frowned. “There can’t be that much to do, can there?”

“Brace yourself,” Charles replied, leaning back in his chair once he was all wrapped up. “And expect the worst.”

The German’s frown deepened as he took his place behind Charles’ chair and began to push him, flexing his abilities for just a quick moment to help move the chair along. It was always a relief to do so, like letting out a breath that had been held in for too long. As he guided Charles down the long corridor, his mind began to drift, as it often did, back to his plan. They were going to host a military official tonight, one who seemed to have influence. It would be a…waste, to not try. Wouldn’t it?

“Sir, you don’t dislike the MacTaggerts, though?” he asked carefully, slowing their journey.

“No. They’re fine people.”

“Could I ask a favor of you, then?” 

Erik was watching the top of Charles’ head as the boy turned around as well as he could to stare up at Erik. He looked…surprised, but there was no sign of anger or defense. Erik took that as a good sign. “Alright,” said the boy as Erik stopped them both. “What’s the favor?”

Erik flexed his fingers around the chair’s handles. This is the first he would ever speak his plans out loud, which would make them real. Fantasies were the drabble that danced in heads, plans were the course that were spoken aloud. “Would it be possible for you to ask the General how a foreign-born boy might join the Royal Army?”

Charles’ curious expression became immediately confused, and then hardened, just a touch. “Why?” he demanded, eyes alight.

Erik set his jaw and moved to the boy’s side so that he could be seen easier. “Because I’m seeking to enlist as soon as I can, and I would guess that the General might be able to give guidance as to how I might do that.”

The young master’s face was utterly unreadable. His blue eyes darkened to the color of the sea just before a storm while his plump lips thinned. He seemed to scan Erik’s own expression, like he was trying to read him. The gentlest push of what Erik had come to know as a telepathic intrusion tapped at the outer veil of his mind but didn’t enter fully––Charles was tasting his mood, but wasn’t reading his thoughts. 

“You’re planning to enlist in the British Army?” Charles asked finally, quieter. 

“I am. In any way I can.”

Charles eyebrows knit together. “You can’t. You’re…you’re _German_ , for God’s sake, Erik.”

“Precisely why I need General MacTaggert’s advice, yes.”

The young master continued to look at Erik in something between shock and anger. Disbelief. “And you want _me_ to be your carrier pigeon?”

“Do you expect me to directly address one of your mother’s guests, Charles?” Erik cut back, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t aware that was permitted.”

Charles said nothing then. His expression was still unreadable as he studied Erik’s face, bony hands curling over the soft wool of his blanket. Erik stood still, too, allowing Charles the time he needed. Eventually, the young master turned his head forward once more, away from Erik, and set his face. “I’d no idea that you nursed a death wish,” he said stonily.

It was Erik’s turn to frown. “It’s not a death wish. I’d like to do what I can to help end this thing.”

“Because your personal participation will make a big difference, of course.”

Erik worked to prevent that from offending him. Instead, he sunk his powers into the metal studs and axle of Charles’ wheelchair and levitated it all. He felt the power radiate through his muscles, through his blood, and this extra sense begged to be explored. Oh, how it would feel to let go of the measured control he always practiced. How amazing it would be to truly take hold of the chair, bend it like, tear it apart, send all components flying through the expensive windows of this gloomy house…

" _Erik!_ " Came the young master’s shriek. The boy was clinging to his armrests, knuckles white as the chair floated a foot above the ground. “Put me down!”

Erik did not heed Charles’ desperate command. The metallic energy communicated between his body and Charles’ chair, coursing through him in waves. It was a release, but it also fanned his flames—the more he held Charles there, the more powerful he felt. “My personal participation may be more impactful than some, Charles,” Erik said firmly, unyielding as he met Charles’ wide blue eyes. “If I can manage some more control, I’m less vulnerable, and I’m more dangerous.”

Charles continued to grip his arm rests for dear life, but he didn’t take his eyes from Erik’s own. A wild swell of emotions passed over his face, ranging from anger to obstinance. Erik stared back, until at last, the telepath schooled his expression into something cool. “If you manage control,” he repeated flatly.

Erik cocked a brow. “I can practice.”

The young master’s jaw set then, and he turned to face forward, all former traces of enlivened ardor gone entirely. “I’ll ask the General,” he said. “Put me down, please.”

The distaste radiating from Charles’ body was tangible, bearing down on Erik like a weight. It was uncomfortable, this clear disapproval, but Erik forced himself to shrug it off. Like Mr. Colson had said, he couldn’t let his fraternity with Charles steer him from his responsibilities. Carefully and with control, Erik lowered the chair to the ground, allowing himself to steel one last grip on the metal before finally releasing his hold. “Thank you, Sir,” he said, wrapping his fingers around the handles once more. “Truly.”

Charles said nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, Erik was born on January 30th. I have given him a November birthday, however, because every single personality factor I can think of points to this man being a Scorpio.
> 
> In this essay, I will––


	7. A Pair of Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The MacTaggerts come for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Vague Holocaust mentions. And also, some sad boys. :(
> 
> Thank you all again for reading! I can't express how much your comments fill me with joy.

_**November, 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England.** _

For the remainder of the day, Charles showed Erik a frosty silence. The young master had been correct—Erik became involuntarily occupied with party preparations for the majority of the morning and afternoon, but even when he managed to escape to bring Charles his tea, his presence was met with cool indifference.

Erik allowed the silence to sit between them, as he wasn’t exactly confident in doing anything other than that. Whatever anger or discontent the young master was feeling would pass, Erik knew. Erik would leave and another person would take his place. Any snatches of ill-will Erik unjustifiably harbored to whoever would assume his position were tampered down immediately, as Erik knew he had no right to feel so possessive about Charles. The boy was not his to possess, nor would he ever be. Erik was Charles’ caretaker, Charles was Erik’s boss. He needn’t let that become a barrier in his grander schemes.

There was no louder silence than the one that sat between them as Erik readied Charles for the evening, however. Erik allowed Charles to slip into his freshly-pressed shirt and blazer on his own, but offered his mute assistance when it came time for trousers, socks, and shoes. Typically, Erik liked to talk through this process to distract them both, as it was still apparent that this was uncomfortable for Charles. Talking took away the magnified reality of the situation. In silence, however, there was little else to focus on but the wasted muscle, the spindly bones, the stubborn lack of movement in Charles’ lower half. Erik tried his best not to project, knowing that Charles could perceive any stray thoughts that passed through his head.

It was with relief, then, that Erik finally parked Charles at his place at the table to wait for the guests to arrive. Most evenings as of late, Erik spoke with Charles through their mental link throughout the young master’s meal—they both rather enjoyed the conversation and distraction from their less-preferred company. Tonight, however, Erik did not reach out for the boy, nor did he feel the familiar press of warmth against his own subconscious. Charles did not want to speak with him.

 _No matter,_ Erik thought to himself, even as his brain found itself whirring from the lack of stimulation. They both had separate business to attend to, anyway. 

The MacTaggerts arrived shortly after Erik settled Charles at the table. From where Erik remained in the kitchen to assist the staff with preparing the courses, he could hear the dining room conversation, attempting to assign each voice to a new identity.

The friendly but firm male voice had to be General MacTaggert. He spoke politely in a refined Scottish accent with each member of the family, inquiring about Madame Xavier’s bridge club, Master Marko’s business dealings, the younger family members’ studies. When Charles spoke up, Erik half expected him to slide in the queries he would be making on Erik’s behalf, but deflated slightly when Charles offered only a cursory answer to the General. Later, then.

A kind and equally firm feminine voice which likely belonged to Mrs. MacTaggert spoke as well. Her accent sounded thicker to Erik’s untrained ears, and there were a few words and phrases that were lost to his sonic understanding, but she seemed warm and personable, procuring laughs from her fellow diners whenever she spoke up.

It wasn’t until Erik was permitted to enter the dining room on a campaign to refill the water glasses when he remembered that Charles had mentioned the MacTaggerts’ daughter. At Charles’ left sat a young woman around their age with dark hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. She was pretty. Inquisitive, sidling in to the conversation with an eager lean. Right…of course. This was the girl who Charles mentioned, the one he ought to desire, but didn’t. 

A twist knotted in Erik’s gut, gaze pausing on Moira MacTaggert. Silky hair fell around her pointy shoulders as she laughed at something her mother said, and then a pair of chocolate brown eyes darted to the side, to observe Charles as she chuckled. And when Erik followed suit and turned his own focus to the young master, a chortling, smiling Charles is what he encountered.

Erik didn’t know what Mrs. MacTaggert had said to make everyone erupt as such, but in that moment, he felt like an intruder. Of course, Erik had never deluded himself so much to think that he _actually_ belonged anywhere near these people, but, in a way, he’d come to regard Charles as somewhat of an equal. It could be easy to forget that they were far from equals—especially when it was just the two of them in the library or Charles’ bedroom. Their surroundings tended to fall away. They were companions, in those moments, independent of their societal labels and backgrounds. It didn’t matter that Erik was a servant.

Right now, however, Erik felt small. He held no authority among these people, no meaning. To them, he was just a pair of hands to pour water.

Foolish of Erik to ever think he’d be anything more than that. As the young woman at Charles’ side laughed once more, Erik watched her straighten her back, fold her hands, delicately sway her head to urge that perfectly-styled hair from her face. He had no idea what they were laughing at—and it didn’t matter. He wasn’t included, anyway. 

Would Charles eventually settle with a young woman like that? Perhaps Charles didn’t want to be with this specific girl, but there was certainly one out there who would steal his heart. Would she be able to take care of him, like Erik? Lift him in and out of his wheelchair. Keep his blankets on hand, ready to wrap around his over-cold body at the first whisper of a breeze. Make his tea stronger than one would expect, with just a splash of milk. Remain awake at his side as the night became morning.

Charles deserved someone like that, who would free him from the oppressive yoke of this dreary manor. 

And Erik….Erik was just a pair of hands to pour water.

The servant quietly stifled his sudden swath of vertigo and strode to the table to fulfill his obligation. One by one, each glass was filled with water, and it wasn’t until he emptied the last of the pitcher into Charles’ glass that a glance was spared his way. 

“Thank you,” came the quiet bid of appreciation from the young master, habitual but not insincere. Erik merely nodded before disappearing from the lavish dining room entirely. 

Back in the kitchen, surrounded by people sore and tired from a long lifetime of hard work, the sense of alienation did not leave entirely. He did not belong here, either. The majority of his companions nursed a flagrant intolerance for him, and Erik didn’t find himself particularly bothered by the notion of being disliked. His tenure at this place was going to be short. There was a next step in place.

 

“General,” came Charles’ polite voice between the first and second course during a short break in the conversation, leading Erik to perk as he hovered beside the door. "I've been reading the newspaper recently. You know, remaining up to date on all that's happening. And it's lead me to grow a bit curious about a few things. I was hoping that you might be able to enlighten me?"

"Well, I can certainly try," General MacTaggert replied in a friendly, slightly mollified tone, and Erik found himself amazed once more by Charles' ability to adapt his demeanor to his surroundings.

"I'm certain you can answer better than anyone, General," Charles insisted. "You see, I'm curious about how a young man who hasn't necessarily been included in the draft  might find a way to enlist."

Erik heard the General clear his throat, a slight screech of chair legs on the wood floor. "Oh, well. I do hope you're not speaking about yourself, dear boy," said the General with an awkward chuckle. "I'm not sure that military life is something that would suit you."

There was a low snigger then from the other end of the table, followed by a second, hollow laugh. Cain. And Kurt. "And what do you plan to do?" sneered Cain. "Run over some filthy German's toes in that chair of yours?"

The low snigger was quickly replaced by a louder, more incensed laugh. This time, Erik could hear Sharon's voice join the mix, her own peal adding a sinister edge to the cacophony. Erik's blood began to heat. 

"Not for me, no," said Charles over the noise, voice pleasant as ever. The utter control with which Charles conducted himself was astounding, to Erik. He had no idea how the boy managed among this cruelty. "I'm merely curious. Certainly there are those who would be interested in joining the cause who aren't necessarily from Britain, no? And Britain isn't an overlarge country. I feel that we could use any additional help that was offered."

Erik heard the General clear his throat, and then speak again in a lowered voice. He had to nearly press his ear to the wall to hear anything clearly. "Well, between you and me, dear boy, this has been happening in every war since the beginning of time," said the General. "Back in feudal times, it was commonplace for a well-to-do member of society to send slaves or serfs to fight in their name. Now, however, that would be seen as highly improper, as you know."

"Of course, General."

"But, improper as it may be, it still happens. I find it fairly despicable, but there are many such cases of folks who'd rather avoid the ugliness sending migrants or vagrants in their stead." The General's voice was still low, somewhat solemn, and Erik could almost hear the tension as it thickened int he dining room. "It's an age-old tradition that is less publicly accepted, but still commonly practiced, I'm afraid."

"So, people can send others to enlist in the military in their name?" said Cain then, and Erik could hear the thinly veiled hope in his brutish drawl. "Of course, I would never do something so cowardly, General, but, if I _were_ a coward, I could?"

"You could," agreed General MacTaggert. "All you'd have to do is send someone to the recruiting depot with your recruitment letter and some form of identification. Could be a birth certificate, or a school record. At this stage, I'm afraid that the officers wouldn't be too bothered by the logistics of verification. Anyone could do it, as a matter of fact, so long as both parties are in agreement."

"Shameful, I think," said Kurt tersely, and Erik tensed where he sat pretending to wipe glasses beside the door. Ever since learning of the man's murderous misdeed, Erik's skin prickled whenever he spoke, alight with an ugly wash of fear and loathing. "Shameful that any young man in this country would purposefully avoid service in this time of need. _All_ young men should feel compelled to serve. Those who don't serve ought to live the remainder of their lives in shame."

Erik was aware enough at this stage to understand that Kurt's superlative statement was directed at both Charles and his own son, despite Charles having no choice in the matter. And to think that _Kurt_ was the direct reason why Charles couldn't serve his country in the first place made the misdirected shame all the worse. One day, Erik would love to teach the man a lesson, he thought with gritted teeth. Throw him from a balcony, perhaps.

"Very shameful," Cain agreed with what Erik knew was faux-solemnity. "In fact, all objectors should be jailed, in my opinion. That's why I'm enlisting as soon as I'm finished with school," the boy said proudly. "The very day I'm finished, General."

"That's very brave of you, son. Your country will thank you," said the General warmly. "Now, enough talk on that subject, hmm? I'd like to not worry your poor mother prematurely. You have your answers, dear boy?"

"Yes, General," said Charles in that same saccharine tone. "Thank you."

 _And now you have yours,_ said a voice in Erik's head, absolutely no trace of saccharine remaining.

 

Dinner seemed to stretch and stretch, to Erik. There was only so much that he could pretend to do in the kitchen, and it was far too taxing on his distracted mind to do much, anyway, so he spent a good part of the next hour peddling about the servant's pantry, stacking and re-stacking the stock.

He could not believe that it could be so easy. The General implied that it was a common practice, and though it was frowned upon publicly, but this was among folks of high society. People whose opinions meant little to Erik, and people who he would rarely associate with. And, regardless, what did Erik care if it was improper. Britain wasn't his country, and these weren't his people. He wouldn't be doing this for Britain's honor.

Still, to think that it would only require a letter made Erik feel light with opportunity, lighter than he had in quite some time. There was an end, a next step. The stagnation was beginning to grate at his resolve, cause him to feel panicky and skittish. He wasn't allowing himself to acknowledge the very real truth that he knew the chances of seeing his family again were dwindling by the day. Keeping busy with plans for the future would certainly help that.

At long last, Erik heard Madame Xavier begin to wrap things up for the night, inviting her guests into the parlor for a round of drinks and more banal chatter. The young master was rarely permitted to join after meals, so Erik took the dismissal as his cue to fetch Charles.

"Sir, if you're ready...?" he asked as he gripped the wooden handles of the chair amid the flurry of guests and servants in the dining room.

A single nod of a chestnut-haired head had Erik pulling the heavy wheelchair from the table, ready to guide both it and its occupant to the quiet of upstairs. Before he could make a proper exit, however, the petite form of the MacTaggert's daughter blocked his path. 

"You're not joining us, Charles?" she asked the boy, disappointment flashing across her delicate features. Erik's grip tightened, but she all but ignored his presence, only sparing him a quick glance.

Charles folded his hands in his lap, and Erik could see his posture straighten. "I'm afraid not. I'm rather tired from the day, and I would make most terrible company," he said in that same sugary voice he'd used all night. "It was ever so lovely to see you again, Moira. Do come round more often, yes?"

The girl nodded politely, and then leaned down to deposit a quick kiss on Charles' cheek. Erik could have crushed the wheelchair with his bare hands then, suddenly overcome with inflammatory distaste for her. Instead, a sharp _ting_ emanated from the table as a few pieces of cutlery dropped to the floor. Only a handful of servants seemed to notice or care, hurriedly retrieving the fallen metal.

"Goodnight, Moira," was all Charles said, before gripping the girl's hand and dropping a kiss of his own on the back. 

"Goodnight, Charles."

It wasn't until Charles was fixed securely in his arms as Erik ascended the main stairwell that the young master finally spoke to him. "You have to be more careful, Erik."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Gravity may be the strongest force in the universe, but it certainly doesn't pull salad forks to the floor from where they're resting atop a table," said the boy plainly, body stiff in Erik's grip.

Erik's jaw set as he reached the top of the stairs, carefully placing Charles on the high-backed bench he always did when moving the young master up and down the stairs. It would be far, far easier and more efficient if he could simply float the entire chair, but there would be no doing that any time soon.

"No one noticed," Erik countered, eyes cast downward on the boy.

Charles raised a brow, and then briefly tapped a temple. "Are you so certain about that?"

"Even if they did, no one will attribute it to me." Erik's arms were crossed, firm and defensive as he and Charles countered each other. "I'm just a servant boy."

Charles crossed his arms in return. "Fine. Expose yourself, then. Since you're so keen to find out where they'll ship you off to, this time."

A swell of anger bubbled in Erik's chest, his vision reddening around the peripheral. Charles' face changed as well, as if he was surprised by his own insensitive comment, but Erik could hardly accept the empathy or apology at this time.

"Erik, I–"

Before Charles could say anything, Erik turned on his heels, stomping down the stairwell with his fists balled at his sides. As he went, the metal frames on the wall vibrated and swayed, a wake of unadulterated rage reverberating from his body and into the metallic ions in his vicinity. He yanked the wheelchair from the floor with one arm without bothering to disguise his ability, and then unceremoniously dumped Charles into the seat once he'd reached the top of the steps once more.

"Ship me off somewhere, then," Erik hissed as he hastily throttled the chair down the landing and into the young master's bedroom. "Wherever I end up, it's certainly better than this overlarge, miserable prison of a house." Charles said nothing as Erik parked him at his bedside, his face a stony mask. Ungracefully, Erik lifted the boy from chair to bed, and then tossed a pair of pajamas at his chest. 

Without another word thereafter, Erik tore from the bedroom, slammed the door behind him, and didn't stop marching until he collapsed beside a willow tree in the icy autumn night.

The wind was even colder as it assaulted Erik's tear-streaked cheeks, but the bubbling heat in his body kept him from noticing. His torso heaved with sob after sob, a tidal wave of fear and anger spilling out in painful droves. Charles was right––expose his abilities to the wrong person and he'd undoubtedly be sent away somewhere, jailed or restrained for who he was.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself, Erik vaulted his fist into the trunk of the tree, his limbs overtaken by passion, anger. They continue to fly into the bark with all his might until his knuckles were raw, scarlet blood staining his white shirt beyond salvage. When he finally stopped, Erik felt sick and weak, crumpling into a pathetic heap beside the  tree as the moonlight shone teasingly off of the blood. 

He could see the house from where he lay, the warm glow of the parlor visible against the dark night. Blurred figures moved behind the frosty glass, arrogant and unaware of Erik's state. It seemed glaringly unfair right now, that these people could be so nearby, but so unchanged by the pain and suffering of someone in their vicinity. Even if they _did_ know of Erik's agony, would they care? Would they comfort him? Raven might offer a shred of solace, but the others assuredly would not, callously disinterested in the inner-workings of _his_ kind. A German, a Jew, a mutant. Poor, uneducated, unmannered. 

Erik's eyes drifted upward along the house's facade, coming to a rest at the window on the second story. It was open just a hair, the window to Charles' bedroom. A dull light indicated that the bedside lamp was still on, and Erik couldn't help but wonder what Charles was doing up there, now. Reading? Writing? Sulking? It bothered him that he still wondered, still cared. Charles was just another spoiled brat who allowed himself to remain removed from the struggles around him. No amount of chess matches or enjoyable conversation would change that. 

When the tears finally stopped, Erik felt dizzy as he sat back up, leaning against the assaulted tree for support. It was cold out, and the wind was bitter, and in that moment, Erik wanted nothing more than to feel his mother's arms around him. Her touch would be warm, and her voice would be gentle but firm as she promised that everything would be okay. The absence ached like an open wound. 

Somewhere, within the jarred and battered recesses of his mind, Erik knew that he would most likely never see her again. For a long, long moment, he allowed himself to mourn.

And when that moment was over, Erik steeled himself in his resolve once more. There would be no more of that, moving forward. He thought of his father, who would urge him not to allow tears to fall, but to take action instead. With the information he'd learned tonight, there was a clear path ahead. Next week, he would collect his meager wages, take his leave of this dreadful place, and find someone to proxy for in the army. It shouldn't be too hard--from the sound of it, young men were being taken from their lives against their will all over the country. Certainly there would be plenty like Erik who were eager to join the cause, but there would also certainly be plenty like Cain.

Cain... _Cain._

Erik clicked his tongue as the idea took root in his head, suddenly energized. It couldn't be that easy, could it? It was clear that, despite what his father said, Cain had absolutely no plans to enlist in the military. He already had his letter, too, which meant that Erik needed only to convince him to hand it and a piece of identification over to him so that Erik could become Cain Marko in the eyes of the British government. There was a part of Erik that wanted Cain to figure his own way through the lie, but it seemed too ideal an opportunity to pass up. 

And...Charles, too, would be getting a letter of his own, fairly soon. The government didn't know that he was crippled––the recruiting officers would only need to spare him a minute glance before deeming him medically unfit, but as far as Erik knew, there was no national register for those with ongoing health issues. 

Even amid his sour distaste for the young master at the moment, Erik knew that he would far rather wear Charles' name on his shoulder than Cain's. Charles Xavier, at least, was someone who _wanted_ this war to end for the right reasons. Despite his choleric behavior, Erik did believe that Charles was someone with a good heart, someone who, one day, may go on to make a positive impact on the world. Cain was not. 

But, Cain was of age. And Erik couldn't bear to squander away his days in this house any longer than absolutely necessary. He'd had enough.

 

After a long night of little sleep, Erik felt marginally better in the morning. His head throbbed, as did his scabbing knuckles, but the clarity of his next steps brought Erik a strange sense of calm.   
Most of the anger he'd directed toward Charles had dissipated, too. The young master had misspoken, but who wasn't prone to such things every now and again? Erik's reaction, he knew, was likely unjustified, and he attributed it to a long overdue need to explode as he had. Hopefully, Charles wouldn't want to discuss last night's occurrence. It would be very well if they could both avoid the topic so that the two of them could part on favorable terms.

It struck Erik, as he neared the young master's bedroom door, that he would miss the boy. The thought of being without Charles' commentary and company every day was catalyzed a dull feeling throughout. He'd grown accustomed to his presence, to having someone there of similar mind to talk to, play chess with, engage. Despite the inequality in their relationship, Erik had found an unlikely friend in Charles. And, even though Erik didn't have Charles' gift, he was fairly certain that the boy at least somewhat enjoyed having him around, too. The chances of the Xaviers finding Charles a replacement caretaker who also enjoyed chess and literature were low, and Erik could only hope that Charles' recent upswings would only continue in a positive direction.

Quietly and emboldened by his commitment, Erik rapped on the young master's bedroom door once and stifled a hiss of pain that blasted from his raw knuckles. "Sir?" There was no answer, which wasn't unusual. Charles' sleeping habits hadn't much changed. Erik pushed the door open.

Before he could call for Charles again, the German immediately bristled at the temperature.

The young master's bedroom was absolutely icy, the marked drop sending the hairs on Erik's arms on end. A noticeable draft tore through the space, and as he frantically searched the space for the culprit, Erik's eyes fell on the window.

His stomach dropped.

From where he wallowed beside the willow tree the previous evening, Erik had taken note that Charles' window had been ajar. They often left it cracked during the day on Erik's insistence of allowing fresh air into the stale space, but he always, always closed it before leaving the boy for the night. On especially chilly evenings, Erik even lit a fire in the young master's fireplace and loaded him up with extra blankets. 

Last night, emblazoned by rage, Erik had merely dumped the boy on his bed and stomped from the room. He hadn't closed the window.

Swearing, Erik raised his right hand and took hold of the window's metal clasp, yanking the pane shut. As he did, he hurried to Charles' bedside and fisted the fabric of his comforter to pull it tighter around the boy, whose eyes were still shut in sleep.

From what Erik could see, Charles had managed to get into his pajama top at the very least, but Erik's focus quickly diverted from the boy's clothing to his skin. It looked utterly ashen, aside from a deep flush of scarlet on his cheeks. 

A quick brush of the back of his hand against Charles' forehead sent Erik's heart to his feet. Charles was blazing with fever.

And from what Erik remembered of Mr. Colson's orientation about Charles' health, a simple flu could spell something far, far more sinister for the young master.


	8. Suffocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is stricken with Pneumonia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - 
> 
> There is a short depiction of physical abuse in this chapter. Please proceed with caution, and skip over the areas delineated by some asterisks if you would rather not engage with that portion.
> 
> On another note....  
> Hello, holy hiatus, Batman!
> 
> This fic is incredibly hard for me to write. Not only do I want to be accurate and just to this setting, I want to do right by the characters and the plot and often struggle to write them in this specific setting. The world around them is quite cruel and the barriers that they both face are unjust, and it's _very_ difficult for me to walk the line of sensitivity, accuracy, and justice. 
> 
> Anyway....THANK YOU for being here through my delays, I so appreciate your readership, and, as always I hope you enjoy. <3

Chapter 8

 

_**November, 1940. Bradford, Devonshire, England.** _

The only reason Erik even vaguely understood what a diagnosis of pneumonia entailed was because his grandmother had died from it when he was a little boy. He remembered filing into her darkened bedroom, stoic at his mother's side, to offer what he was told would be a final goodbye.

She'd looked different, entirely unlike the solid but warm woman who used to sneak him sweets and read him Yiddish folk tales. Lungenentzündung, is what his parents had called it, a word that sounded long and harsh even to his young ears, and it seemed to serve as a sort of onomatopoeia to the hacking coughs that racked her entire body.

So, when the tall, pensive doctor called Dr. Strange lifted his stethoscope from Charles' chest and declared that the boy had contracted pneumonia, Erik could only imagine the very worst. By now, Charles' dark hair was plastered against his forehead with perspiration, and his chest was rising and falling in jerking, uneven jaunts.

And, more frighteningly, in the hour or so since Erik had discovered Charles, his lips had since acquired a blue hue.

"Will he be okay?" Raven finally asked meekly, her fingers clutched around Charles' left hand like a vice. A small team of staff had gathered around the young master's bed alongside the doctor, silently observing his sickly form. Madame Xavier was also in their midst, though she stood apart from the group, hovering near the door with her arms clasped behind her back. The expression on her face was unreadable.

Erik held his breath. 

"I can't give you an answer with certainty, Miss," said Dr. Strange as he removed his glasses. "The injuries to his spinal column complicate illness, as I'm sure you've been told."

"We have been," said Mr. Colson, body rigid as he stood perched beside Charles' head on the far side of the bed. It was rare to see the man in this wing of the house, but he'd been the first one Erik alerted. He'd been the one to call on the doctor. "His immunity is impaired."

"Precisely," the doctor nodded. "And, more critically for this matter, his respiratory function is impaired."

Erik felt like he was listening to the conversation from outside of his head as the grittier details were explained. Apparently, Charles' spinal cord trauma had also compromised the rest of his body’s strength, leaving behind an array of half-functioning organ systems that were prone to illness, infection, and injury. Even healthy people had to worry about pneumonia, so a boy with severely impaired health, Erik realized with a nauseous twist, could die.

The German hadn't moved a millimeter since Dr. Strange arrived, a statue at the foot of the bed. His eyes remained trained on the boy's pallid face, willing him to open those eyes. It was assuredly irrational, but Erik felt that if Charles just awoke, if he slipped back into consciousness, they could all will him better, feed his own desire to recover. _Erik_ could will him better. Any pleas right now would fall on potentially deaf ears.

Although....

 _Charles,_ called Erik firmly, in his head. Usually, he felt rather silly trying to reach out to the boy like this, but right now, he wasn't too worried about shame. _Sir, can you hear me?_

There was no gentle push to announce Charles' arrival in his thoughts. No rich voice reverberating through his eardrums. _Charles, please, please wake up, please wake up. You have to wake up. You have to get better._

Nothing. A strong, thick desperation flooded through Erik then as he stared at Charles' unmoving form. Nestled in his large bed among the crowd of people, the boy appeared especially small. His pajama top hung loosely around his shoulders where they were uncovered by blankets. Over the weeks and months, the facade of a sickly boy had faded before Erik's eyes, replaced by the Charles he'd come to know, the Charles he'd come to like. He'd almost forgotten how worryingly thin Charles actually was, how even the smallest draft raised gooseflesh along his skin.

In the beginning, Erik been vigilant. Charles always had his extra blankets, was put to bed at an appropriate time, was attended closely. Erik had been on a mission to prove to the young master that he wasn't one to be pushed around, and that entailed following Mr. Colson's instructions for Charles' care to the letter. Lately, however, their budding acquaintance made those instructions less than attractive for both of them–Erik didn't want to leave Charles to sleep in the early evening, as there was much to talk about in the small hours. The dearth of blankets became cumbersome when moving about outside. And after awhile, Erik had grown tired of insisting that Charles choke down food he didn't want to eat, so he'd stopped.

"That one," said a female voice.

Suddenly, Erik realized that the collection of people around had honed their focus on him. Carol stood at his left, while Mr. Colson, Mary, and another servant called Alex were gathered beside Charles's head on the right. Raven, too, had diverted her attention to Erik, tears brimming in her eyes. 

Erik blinked, and then looked to the doctor.

"You're the one who looks after Mr. Xavier?" the doctor asked Erik, thin eyebrow cocked.

Once more, Erik's heart somersaulted in his chest. The eyes of his companions were like needles against his skin, their scrutiny itching. Behind him, Madame Xavier loomed in the doorway, and Erik could feel her cold gaze icing at the back of his neck. Wordlessly, Erik nodded, still unable to speak.

"Come here, then, boy. Let me show you how to attend him."

Erik watched stiffly as the doctor showed him how to help clear Charles' lungs by pressing on his chest. Even as Erik practiced (and feared that he would crush Charles' birdlike bones under his palms), the boy did not wake, or even stir. His skin felt impossibly warmer as Erik assisted the doctor in resting Charles' upper body atop a few pillows to ease his breathing. "Shouldn't...would it be better to take him to a hospital?" Erik finally asked as the doctor placed a vial of medication on Charles' bedside table. "If he's that ill, after all..."

"He'll be more comfortable at home," Dr. Strange assured, and then allowed a frown to pass across his face wide face. "The hospital in the village is beyond capacity, anyway. A shipment of overflow patients from the Midlands arrived last night."

"What?" Carol cut in then. "Why?"

"Half the hospitals in the country have been shut down. Germans, or threats of Germans," the doctor said solemnly, wringing his long-fingered hands before him. "The village hospital isn't equipped to for this sort of volume, or this sort of trauma."

"So, you're saying that my brother isn't entitled to place in hospital because he didn't get his arm blown off by some bomb?" Raven hissed from where she stood beside Carol, the fabric of her heavy skirt clutched in her fingers. "He has to stay here to die instead?"

" _Raven,_ " said Madame Xavier with ice in her voice, the first time she'd spoken all morning long. All eyes flew to the woman beside the door, her fiery eyes narrowed and plump lips pressed into a thin line. "That is out of line."

"As if _you_ care!" the girl exploded back as tears tore down her face. "You've already been acting like he doesn't exist–what does it matter to you if he dies?"

It was horrifying, to watch Sharon Xavier step into her son's bedroom, take a few graceful strides toward Raven, and bring the back of her hand across the girl's cheek with such force that an angry _whack_ echoed off of the cavernous ceiling. Raven staggered where she stood as her body curled in on itself, Carol's arms firmly steadying her to prevent her from collapsing onto the wood floor. A low whimper sounded from the girl's folded form, and when she finally straightened up to face her adoptive mother, Erik could see that her skin had already flushed a bright red.

"You’ve come into _my_ house and still dare say such libelous things?" Madame Xavier hissed, and Erik would swear that her canines had grown points. "I will turn you out on the streets, girl. The only reason I haven't done so already is because _he_ ," a jagged gesture toward Charles' bed, "desired a play thing." 

Close up, Erik could see the lines in the woman's face, framing her mouth in a downward slant. There were creases on her forehead, too, and in the outer corners of her eyes, all of which grew more pronounced as her frown deepened. Vaguely, as his thoughts continued to whir, Erik recognized several features in her face that Charles had borrowed, from her berry-colored lips to her oceanic eyes. And yet, at the same time, she looked absolutely nothing like her son, every corner of her mug darkened by a venomous shadow.

Nobody moved. Nobody even dared to breathe as the Madame and Raven locked eyes, the latter still clutching her cheek. The overhead light glinted off the stream of tears as it coursed down her face. 

"Do you understand me, girl?" Madame Xavier demanded dangerously, sending Raven into a flinch.

"Yes, ma'am," she whispered at last.

Sharon straightened a bit then, smoothing the front of her dress. "Good. I think we're done here,," she said in a clipped tone, addressing the room. "Mr. Colson, I trust that your staff will tend to my son and do everything in their power to see that he recovers."

"Oh–of course, Madame," scrambled the stunned man, ever the professional. "We won't leave his side."

"Of course you won't," she agreed, turning her back on the room. The long stem of her polished heels clicked against the wood floor as she began her exit. "Do update me regarding his condition. And thank you, Doctor Strange. I do appreciate you calling in."

"It's no bother, Mrs. Xavier," was all he managed, leonine face worried.

The moment that the clack of her heels could no longer be detected, Raven burst into proper tears and tore from the room. Carol and Mary both were at her heels, leaving Erik alone with Doctor Strange, Mr. Colson, and Alex. They remained encircled around Charles in an alarmed silence.

"Is there...is there anything else that we need to do?" Mr. Colson asked finally, and Erik could see that his fingers were balled into tight fists.

The doctor bent to retrieve his leather bag from the floor. If he had an opinion on what he’d just witnessed, he bore no evidence, schooling his face into something stony. 

"Unfortunately, there really isn't much," he admitted. "Keep cool cloths on his forehead to encourage the fever down. And, try to give him one of these every morning and night." He gestured toward the thin bottle of tablets. "Aside from that, all you can do is try to clear his lungs, as I've shown you, and hope that his body fights it off."

"That's it?" Erik demanded, finally finding his voice. It was as if he'd been frozen, watching the scene before him from a vantage point that was not his own. Doctor Strange's preparation for departure sent Erik flying back into his body. "Squeeze his chest, put rags on his head, and hope he doesn't die? _That's_ what you get paid to tell us?"

Doctor Strange met Erik's eyes with his own ice blue ones, his narrow eyes studying the boy's face. "Unfortunately, boy, I'm a doctor. Not a magician," he said cooly. "And, as I told the young lady, the hospital can't do much, at the moment. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

It wasn't until the doctor's long, tall form had nearly disappeared out of sight that Erik's throat began to work again. "Doctor!" he called after the man, the crack in his voice betraying any sort of confidence he'd attempted to feign.

An obviously irritated Doctor Strange turned around to face Erik once more. "I really must be going."

"How did he get it?" Erik practically breathed, still hovered beside Charles' head. "I mean, how does one come down with pneumonia?"

"Pathogens such as this are fairly common this time of year," the man answered as he glanced at his heavy watch. "He likely ingested something with the bug."

"Can you get ill from being too cold?" he asked with poorly masked desperation.

Doctor Strange gave a brief roll of his eyes. "There's nothing inherent about cold weather that makes anyone ill," he said, as if Erik were a young child asking too many questions. "Your immunity may weaken if you're exposed to cold weather for a prolonged period of time, and it's thought that certain illnesses spread more easily in the cold." 

Erik felt himself shrivel as the man turned around once more. "Give me a ring if he worsens severely. I'll call back in later this week. Good day."

The only noise that punctuated the silence then was Charles' labored breathing. It was harsh and ratcheted, as if his lungs could not swallow the air they needed to keep his body going. 

He watched the boy's face, pale and slick with a sickly sheen. _Charles,_ he called again, mental voice firm and loud as he could possibly force. _Please, Charles. Wake up. I know you can._

"Will you be alright to tend him?" Mr. Colson finally asked after a moment, his voice in another dimension. Erik blinked over at the man, who had reassumed his typical posture of a ramrod spine and hands clasped behind his back. "If you're not par for the task, I will send someone else in."

"I'll tend him," Erik said quietly.

"Alright. I'll still send someone to check in every hour or so. Do alert me if you need assistance," said Mr. Colson. The man let a worried gaze linger over Charles' form for another long moment, and then let out a quiet sigh as he strode to the door. "Mr. Summers, I believe you have somewhere to be as well," were the last words Erik heard before Mr. Colson disappeared.

Erik stood beside Charles' head, a weighty silence hung between himself and Alex Summers. He'd never paid much attention to the other boy–he was a porter who didn't seem to have any fondness for Erik, which wasn't unusual. Here, though, in Charles' room, Erik could see that Summers was quite young, and appeared distressed.

"You think he's gonna die?" Summers asked after a moment, and Erik caught himself cringing before he schooled his face into a grimace.

"I'm not a doctor," he said tersely. 

Summers frowned, but nodded as he fixed his gaze on Charles' sleeping form. "He's not bad," he offered, crossing his arms. "Before the fall, he was great, actually. Helped me learn how to read."

Even though he'd rarely seen Charles interact with members of staff, he could somehow imagine the young master taking Alex Summers under his tutelage. Two smiling young men, seated beside each other at a table sprawled with books. It wasn't a sight Erik would ever see again, but, knowing Charles now, he could imagine it in their past. "How kind of him."

"Said he'd try to convince the Madame to bring my little brother here for work, too," Summers said quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Scotty's blind, see. Parents didn't know what to do with him, so they sent him to an institution. I know it's no good for him there. I'd rather him here." Erik watched a flash of pain overtake the young man's features, and then quickly freeze away. "I'd find something for him to do. Think the young master forgot, though."

Instantly, Erik thought of his little sister. He'd been five when Ruth was born, and although they'd never been particularly close, he knew that he would give anything and everything to have her here, too. It was dangerous to allow his mind to wander toward thoughts of her, but it inched into that murky territory, pawing at the "what ifs" and spooled scenarios of the worst possible case. 

"Remind him, then," Erik said, gaze falling back toward Charles' sickly pallor. "When he gets better."

"Yeah. I will," Alex nodded, and then began to shuffle toward the door. With a final lingering look at Charles, Summers ducked out, and Erik was alone with the boy at last.

 

As directed, Erik tended to the boy as morning began to crest into noon. Every twenty minutes, he replaced the cloth on Charles' forehead with a fresh one. Every hour, he eased a cough out of his wheezing throat with the compressions Doctor Strange had shown him. And in between the tending, Erik sat in a chair by his head and waited. For what, he didn't know, but there was a keen sense of unease and impatience within that was making Erik feel a bit nauseous in his own right.

Or maybe, it was the fact that Charles was not getting any better as time progressed. His forehead remained alight in fever and his skin was sapped entirely of color. Strained breaths escaped through blueish lips. His chest rose and fell under a mountain of blankets. But no signs of improvement taunted Erik at all. 

It was again impossible to not think of his own mother, too, who used to sing him old Yiddish songs when he was ill. As a young child, he'd believed her when she told him that certain songs were infused with a mystical ability to make illness go away.

And when he was too old to believe in such fanciful tales, he would pretend to be asleep while his mother sang, a different type of magic soothing whatever ache or pain his body had.

Erik studied Charles' face. He looked young, behind his sickly mask of paleness and sheen. In his large featherbed, surrounded by a dearth of _things_ , things which had been bought for him in the place of real love. 

Charles' mother didn't love him, Erik knew with sudden certainty. He'd known, of course, that she wasn't a warm person by nature, but if she truly loved her son, she would be here, seated beside him, singing him old songs of her own. She wouldn't leave his side, not even for a moment, while his body struggled to keep from slipping away.

Erik could feel her heavy silver earrings somewhere downstairs. Probably in the parlor, having a drink. Leaving her only son in the care of an untrained stranger as he teetered between life and death.

A shaky hand found itself on Charles' cloth-covered forehead, and gently pushed strands of dampened hair away. "Did you know, Charles, that certain songs are infused with a mystical ability to make illness go away?" he said, voice low. "It's true. I'll sing this to you, and you'll get better."

Erik paid a quick glance to the doorway to ensure that nobody was approaching, and then let the lullaby he knew so well spill from his memory and onto his tongue:

" _Sheyn vi di levone_                            Beautiful as the moon  
 _Likhtik vi di shtern_                            Shining like the stars  
 _Fun himl a matone_                          From heaven, as a gift  
 _Bistu mir tsu geshikt...._ "                      You were sent to me....   

It was weird, to sing, and it felt out of place. Yiddish words did not belong in the Xavier estate. Even so, Erik continued to allow the words to carry through the room in his rich baritone.

" _Mayn glik hob ikh gevinen_               I won my fortune  
 _Ven ikh hob dikh gefinen_                 When I found you  
 _Shaynst vi toyznt zinen_                   You shine like a thousand suns  
 _Hostu mayn harts baglikt...._ "                You've made my heart happy....   

Fingers began to card through Charles' stringy hair, eyes fixated on the boy's unmoving face, on his purplish lips.

" _Dayne tseyndelekh_                   Your teeth  
 _Vayse perelkeh_                          White pearls  
 _Mit dayne sheyn oygn_              With your lovely eyes  
 _Dayne herelekh_                         Your hair  
 _Dayne kleydelekh_                      Your clothes  
 _Host mikh tsugetsoygn...._ "              You drew me to you...

Erik's free hand found its way to Charles' own, which was cold, clammy, and unresponsive. His warm fingers encircled brittle ones, which felt like they may snap under the faintest hint of pressure.

" _Sheyn vi di levone_                            Beautiful as the moon  
 _Likhtik vi di shtern_                            Shining like the stars  
 _Fun himl a matone_                          From heaven, as a gift  
 _Bistu mir tsu geshikt._ "                      You were sent to me.

The final note of the old folk tune hung in the air, and then disappeared. There was no change in Charles, his breaths still wheezing in uneven, pained droves. Erik gave his hand the smallest squeeze, and then leaned in closer. "It's magic, Charles," he all but whispered, the desperation and anguish in his voice causing his words to come quicker. "Just you wait. You'll be better in no time at all. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

The sudden addition of an extra voice made Erik jump. Extracting his hands from Charles, Erik looked up to find Raven leaning in the doorway. Not a strand of her blonde hair was out of place. There was also no trace of the red mark on her cheek. Still, her eyes were troubled, and Erik could see that even from where he sat.

"What would you have me say, then?" Erik asked, in challenge.

"Nothing. He can't hear you," Raven replied as she entered the room and shut the door behind her. She paused at the foot of the bed, leaning forward against the wooden footboard as she cast her eyes over her brother's form. "And even if he could, I wouldn't promise him that he'll be alright."

Erik knew that he couldn't promise anything, of course. Months ago, he'd promised himself that he would see his family again, and even before that, he'd promised that he wouldn't allow them to be split up. Hapless hope, cast out with a chest puffed forward and unfounded confidence. Eventually, all promises like that fell victim to external forces that had their own agendas, set forth by universal powers who were indifferent to the bleeding heart of a young Jewish boy. 

Charles would heal or he wouldn't, and none of Erik's wishing or hoping or praying would influence that trajectory. 

"I can hope," Erik said anyway, looking back over Charles. "It can't hurt anything, to say it."

Raven pressed her lips together before moving to the other side of the bed. "It's all Kurt's fault," Raven said finally, reaching forward to take Charles' hand between her own once more. "If he hadn't––" she looked up suddenly, studying Erik's face.

Trying to gauge what he knew.

"He told me," Erik affirmed quietly, and Raven lowered her head. 

"He trusts you. He _likes_ you," said the young woman, her thumb absently running across the back of Charles’s hand. "He's smiling more, talking to me more. Going outside. I've even heard him laugh recently. He hasn't done that in a long time."

The change, in the young master, was evident, of course. Erik was neither naïve nor humble enough to deny that he'd had a positive impact on Charles' mood and behavior. It had been a difficult route, at first, but after realizing that Charles simply wanted someone to talk to, someone to treat him like a person again, everything became natural. Charles needed a friend. And, perhaps, Erik had needed one, too. 

Erik hadn't properly spoken to Raven in any capacity more than a passing conversation, he realized. She was like them. Special.

"Has he told you? About me?"

Raven looked up in question, and then a wash of understanding spread across her face. "Fool can't keep a secret, can he?"

"Apparently not."

Raven shook her head in what would have been a fond way had her face not been masked in worry. As she shook, Erik could see that her cheek, where it had been perfectly free of any trace of Sharon Xavier's abuse, was slowly coloring until the majority of it was covered by a purplish splotch. And then, before his eyes, Raven's skin disappeared completely and was replaced by a plane of shimmering blue scales. Hair as bright as the sun stood out against the sea of blue, and a pair of yellow eyes stared back at him as his jaw dropped.

Her clothing was gone, but the royal scales offered a semblance of coverage, and Erik, although he knew he ought not stare, couldn't help his eyes as they drank it all in. She didn't seem real––it was as if a creature from one of his mother's bedtime stories had landed before him.

All too soon, however, the scales pulled away and Raven's cream-colored skin returned, as did her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pressed clothing. She looked at Erik again, expression challenging. " _That's_ what I am," she murmured, reaching back to grab Charles' hand as if by reflex. "It's..."

"Incredible," Erik finished, too astonished to lie. Raven's confusion was evident, so Erik continued. "It's amazing, Miss Raven. I cannot fathom why you'd think anything other than that."

Raven's blue eyes narrowed on Erik's face, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. "I suppose it's convenient," she conceded, turning her gaze back to Charles. "Easier to hide blemishes, or bruises."

"And more," Erik insisted, intrigued. "What you can do is so different than what Charles can do, or what I can do. I never knew there were more of us out there. It makes me wonder how many of us there really are."

"Alex Summers is one," said Raven flatly. "So is Sean Cassidy. And a boy Charles went to school with."

There were so many of them. So, so many, and Erik had been living blind to it for his entire life. Charles had been the one to show him that he wasn't entirely alone in the world, but, if what Raven was saying was truthful, people with special abilities were hiding at every turn.

"We shouldn't be forced to live in secret," said Erik finally.

Raven snorted.

"I mean it," insisted the German, allowing his eyes to come to a rest on Charles' sleeping form. "We have abilities that could benefit humanity, don't we? We're useful."

"Right," sneered Raven. "Last month, while Summers was visiting his family in London, he set fire to a department store after losing control of himself." She shook a lock of honey-colored hair from her face. "He's bloody lucky that everyone's ready to blame a German plane right now for spontaneous building explosions. How useful is that?"

Erik considered her words, thinking of one of his early conversations with Charles. They'd discussed control, and learning how to channel their abilities in productive ways. "He just needs to learn how to use them better. We all do."

"The world isn't ready for us," Raven hissed then, gripping Charles' hand like a vice. "The world isn't ready for "different," Erik."

"Believe me, Miss Raven," replied Erik cooly. "I know how the world feels about those who are different."

An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them, and only when Charles let out a faint rasping noise did the two of them move from their binding stillness. "We can't let him die," Raven whispered, hands fluttering around Charles as if they couldn't decide what to do. "We can't. He's....the only reason I'm alive, probably."

 _Me too,_ Erik thought glumly, but instead of speaking up, he added yet another pillow behind Charles to hopefully help him breathe with less strain. "We won't let him die," he said, although his voice was less than confident. "I won't, Raven."

Raven's own levels of confidence in Erik's words appeared rather low as well. She leaned over and placed a kiss on Charles' clammy forehead, and then stood up, straightening her skirt as she did. "Sharon'll have my head if I'm late for tea," she grunted. "I'll…be back later, I suppose."

"I'll be here."

 

Yet again, Erik was left alone with Charles, who hadn't shown any promising signs of recovery since Erik discovered him early that morning. 

Watching Charles was agonizing. Just as Erik waited for any modicum of change to occur, he also feared it—Charles could worsen tremendously, and then what would Erik do? Beg Mr. Colson to ring Doctor Strange once more? Beg Doctor Strange to heal Charles with some skillset beyond his own? The Xaviers had enough money to pay for the best doctors, the best care, so if they couldn’t do anything to heal Charles, who could?

These were the ruminations that carried Erik through the afternoon, evening, and into the small hours of the morning. The world had long gone quiet when Erik began to drift into semi-consciousness. His eyes remained open with alertness on standby in the case that anything changed Charles’ state, but Erik’s thoughts began to haze with daydream.

Until suddenly, Erik plunged into an icy sheet of water.

Startled, Erik gasped, and his limbs flailed, but nothing changed around him. Frigid water tickled at every inch of skin, which was completely naked safe for a swimming costume around his lower half. And as his own arms scrabbled at Charles’ bedside, they also cut through the water’s surface with powerful grace and practice assurance, carrying him through space. Behind him, lean, strong legs kicked in a uptempo rhythm, propelling his body forward in tandem with stroking arms. 

Erik could feel his heart pumping rapidly, body quickly warming despite the chill of the water around him. His muscles burned, but that’s what he craved, he realized, and was overcome by a distinct feeling of relish at the acknowledgement of struggle. 

He moved quicker. Gliding through the water like he was made of the stuff itself, he allowed his head to turn to his right side every fourth stroke to restock the supply in his lungs, but only on every fourth stroke. Even as his chest began to ache and crave more oxygen, Erik could feel a strong rejection of any ideas to breathe with more frequency.

 _Breathing is not hydrodynamic,_ a voice whispered, from within his own head.

He pushed through the pain, the fatigue in his legs and the constriction in his chest. The water stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but he didn’t allow himself to focus on anything other than his very real goal, which, as he moved his arms and legs impossibly faster, inched closer and closer, and grew so alluring that every inch of his brain matter wanted to reach the edge of the pool in five seconds, four seconds, three seconds, two…one….

An audible, rasping gasp exploded from Erik’s mouth.

He blinked. The familiar surroundings of Charles’ bedroom rushed back into focus. Draperies, curtains, surfaces covered in books. Not an inch of Erik or his clothing dripped wet, and the ratcheting beating of his heart against his ribcage had quieted into something more regular.

And before he could even try to reason with what he had just seen, had just _experienced_ , he tripped over a stray shoelace and began to tumble down a grassy hillside.

In terror, Erik watched as his exposed knees slid against the wet ground, staining green. His hands scrambled to brace himself, but they were too small to do much other than tear at the dewy blades until he came to a stop, about five feet from where he’d tripped.

For a moment, he could only sit there in stunned silence, suddenly overwhelmed by the blue of the sky and the birdsong. But when a thin trickle of scarlet blood began to course down his leg, Erik did the only plausible thing he could.

He burst into tears.

A loud wail railed from his mouth, carrying with it the fear and startled realization he’d just been drowned with. It all exploded from him with no control—nothing, _nothing,_ could be any more horrific than this. 

Strong arms lifted him from where he sat on the grass and pulled him into a warm embrace. His feet dangled several feet off the ground, and immediately, everything felt much better, much safer. 

“Oh, dear, Charles,” said a man’s voice, which belonged to the person who had lifted him up. “You’re alright, shh, you’re just fine.” Erik melted against the man’s neck, feeling immediately better when a long-fingered hand began to rub up and down his tiny back. “You’re alright, my boy.”

“I _twipped!_ ” he insisted in a high-pitched child’s voice, eyes welling up with tears all over again. “I twipped and falled all the way down, Daddy!”

“I saw you,” said the man, and when he pulled Erik back so they could look each other in the eye, a shadow blurred the man’s features, rendering them indiscernible. “And now, you’re okay, my darling. Look, you’re being very brave, aren’t you? Let’s go see if we can find something sweet to eat before tea, hmm?”

The pain was gone, then, replaced rapidly with joy. “Lollies?”

“Only if you don’t tell your mum.”

Charles’ bedroom appeared once again. 

_Telepathy,_ Erik thought with alarm. He’d just witnessed Charles’ memories. The boy had told him that he could “project” his own thoughts into other’s heads and explained that he would never do so as it would undoubtedly cause disturbances.

Ill and unconscious, Charles could not keep such things from happening.

It happened several more times over the next few hours. More of Charles swimming, scenes from a fancy school, Raven as a young child. 

The terror of falling from a balcony.

Erik could not help but feel like an intruder as he bore unintentional witness to Charles’ memories, encroaching on private thoughts that Charles had kept for himself for reasons Erik needn’t know. 

Simultaneously, Erik was fascinated and allured. 

He knew little about Charles’ past, and certainly nothing of how… _intensely_ he felt things. While experiencing these thoughts, Erik caught glimpses of Charles’ drive, ambition, thirst to be the best at what he did. That was a dimension of Charles that Erik knew existed, but he hadn’t understood until now how deeply that permeated who he was. 

Perhaps that was why Charles was so angry.

In the house where he grew up, sequestered away from the world in which he’d thrived, there wasn’t much opportunity for Charles to expand and explore. He had books and chess, but if Charles flourished under pressure and success, his spirit, likely, was slowly suffocating.

And _that,_ Erik knew with certainty, was the saddest thing of all.

Charles didn’t have to live in this way. He was capable, able. Intelligent as could be, and clearly invested with the drive to push beyond limiting barriers. Keeping Charles locked away in his gloomy building forever would be both a disservice to himself and the rest of the world, would it not? A squandering of a brilliant mind.

If— _when_ —Charles recovered from this spate of illness, Erik vowed that he would do all he could to ready Charles for a departure. From this mansion, from this mindset, from the limiting expectations. Raven claimed that the world was not ready for people like them as they were, but what should they care if it wasn’t? They were here as they were whether accepted or not. Mutant, Jewish, crippled, different. 

Before he left for war, then. His family was gone, there were no loose ends he needed to tie other than this one. Because when he left, Charles ought to leave, too. 

They deserved it.

“E—Erik?”

As if waking from a dream, Erik pushed through the murk of his reverie, only registering that his name had been spoken aloud after a push against his mind sent a mild shockwave through his conscience. In disbelief, his eyes settled on the young master, whose own eyes were….open.

_Open._

“Charles?”

In an instant, Erik was at the young master’s side, the back of his hand pressed against a forehead that was still warm, still clammy, but, oh goodness, less of an inferno than it had been all day. His chest ratcheted, and his breath was obviously strained, but his eyes were open and probing.

“Charles,” Erik breathed, a balloon suddenly bursting in his own chest. “ _Mein Gott,_ you’re awake.”

Charles’ eyes fluttered shut again. “Am…I’m not dead?” he rasped.

“No,” Erik whispered as his hand found Charles’ own, squeezing it like it was the only thing that kept their hearts beating, their lungs swallowing air. “You’re alive.”

A stubborn grunt from Charles. “Bloody hell. I feel dead.”

Unbidden, a smile stretched across Erik’s face, and he almost felt like laughing, because they were certainly not in the clear, but Charles was awake and still so very _Charles._

“Not dead, Sir,” Erik replied with a squeeze of his hand. “You’ve hung on.”

“Don’t know why. Or how.”

“You’re stronger than you know,” promised Erik, watching as Charles took a shuddering breath. “And it’ll get better.”

Charles cracked an eye open again, his bleary blues still holding Erik’s own hostage with their intensity. “I hope so, Erik. I really, really do.”


End file.
